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NEGA  TIVE 

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A  UTHOR : 


TAINE,  HIPPOLYTE  A 


TITLE: 


TOUR  THROUGH 

THE  PYRENEES 

PLACE: 

NEW  YORK 

DA  TE : 

1876 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 


Master  Negative  # 


BIBLIOGRAPHIC  MICROFORM  TARGET 


Restrictions  on  Use: 


Original  Material  as  Filmed  -  Existing  Bibliographic  Record 


9U6.01 
T13 


D946,01 
T13 


Voyage  aux  Pyrenees • 
Eng.     Piske. 

Taine,  Hippolyte  Adolphe,  1828-1893. 

A  tour  through  the  Pyrenees,  by  Jlippolyte  Adolphe 
Taine ...  tr.  by  J.  Safford  Fiske,  with  illustrations  by-Gustavo 
^^re:    New  York,  H.  Holt  and  company,  Wf^,  1876 . 

»4ri23  p.  4ndr  nius,,  plates.   24i  cm. 

A^t!echtriM4Hn»r>  ■  Tho  Pyronoeg  .„ 

x..?'''^",^^**^*^"  ^^  Voyage  aux  Pyr6n6es.  first  published  1855  under 
title :  Voyage  aux  eaux  des  Pyrto^es. 

Copy  in  Barnard.  1876. 

^1^  Pyrenees—Descr.  &  trav.        i.  Fiske,  John  Saflford,  1838-1907. 
tr.    II.  •Dor^,  Gustave,  1832-1883,  ilius. 

4—18598 


Library  of  Congress 


( 


^    DC611.P988T35 

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HLMEDBY:    RESEARCH  PUBLICATIONS,  INC  WOODBRIDGE.  CT 


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A  TOUR  THROUGH 


The  Pyrenees 


BY 


HIPPOLYTE  ADOLPHE  TAINE 

Author  o/"A  History  of  Etiglish  Literature,''  "  Travels  in  Italy, »  eicJ 


TRANSLATED  BY 


J.  SAFFORD  FISKE 


:j 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY   HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

1S76 


TO  MARCELIN. 


Kntered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  /car  1873,  b, 

HENRY  HOLT, 
Ib  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washbgtoo. 


u 


WEW    YORiC. 


(emile  planat.) 

This,  my  dear  Marcelin,  Is  a  trip  to  the  Pyre- 
nees; I  have  been  there,  and  that  is  a  praise- 
worthy circumstance ;  many  writers,  including  some 
of  the  longest-winded,  have  described  these  scenes 
without  leaving  home. 

And  yet  I  have  serious  shortcomings  to  confess, 
and  am  deeply  humbled  thereat.  I  have  not  been 
the  first  to  scale  any  inaccessible  mountain ;  I  have 
broken  neither  leg  nor  arm  ;  I  have  not  been  eaten 
by  the  bears ;  I  have  neither  saved  any  English 
heiress  from  being  swept  away  by  the  Gave,  nor 
yet  have  I  married  one ;  I  have  not  been  present 
at  a  single  duel ;  my  experiences  include  no  tragic 
encounter  with  brigands  or  smugglers.  I  have 
walked  much,  and  talked  a  litde,  and  now  I  recount 
the  pleasures  of  my  eyes  and  ears.  What  sort  of  a 
man  can  he  be  who  comes  home  from  a  long  ab- 
sence bringing  all  his  limbs  with  him,  is  not  the 
least  in  the  world  a  hero,  and  yet  does  not  blush  to 

1  9  /{  -^  i  *Q 


iv 


DEDICATION. 


confess  it  ?  In  this  book  I  have  talked  as  if  with 
thee.  There  is  a  Marcelin  whom  the  public  knows, 
a  shrewd  critic,  a  caustic  wit,  the  lover  and  deline- 
ator of  every  worldly  elegance;  there  is  another 
Marcelin,  known  to  but  three  or  four,  a  learned 
and  thoughtful  man.  If  there  are  any  good  ideas 
in  this  work,  half  of  them  belong  to  him ;  to  him, 

then,  I  restore  them. 

H.  TAINE. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I.~THE  COAST. 


i/ 


CHAPTER  I,— BORDEAUX.— ROYAN' 

**         II.—LESLANDES.—BAYONNE 

«•       nT.-BIARRITZ.-SAINT^yEAN^DE-L  UZ 


rAGi 
3 

8 
*1 


J 


l-rl 


* 


BOOK  II.— THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 

CHAPTER  I.—DAX,-^ORTHEZ     .... 

"         II.—PAU      .        . 

••••••••62 

"       III.^EAUX-BONNES     .        .  « 

•       •       •       •  <»4 

••        IV,— LANDSCAPES    . 

••••••      97 

"  V.—EAUX-CHAUDES .        .  ,^ 

•         •        •         •         •  IIO 

w         VI,— THE  INHABITANTS ,^6 

BOOK  m.—THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 

CHAPTER  I— ON  THE  WAY  TO  LUZ      ....         ,57 

•«         II.-LUZ      .        .        . 

17a 

••       III—SAINT.SAUVEUR.-BAREGES.        .        .  ,82 

••        IV.—CAUTERETS      .  .  - 

••••••     19a 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


PAGB 

CHAPTER  v.— SAINT-SAVIN 210 

"        VI,—GAVARNIE 218 

"      VII.—THE  BERGONZ,—THE  PIC  DU  MIDI   .  230 

"     VIII,— PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS        .                 .       .  239 

BOOK  IV.— BAGNfeRES  AND  LUCHON. 

CHAPTER  I.—FROMLUZ  TO  BAGNkRES-DE-BIGORRE  253 

•^         IL—BAGNERES-DE'BIGORRE       ....  269 

««       IIL^THE  PEOPLE 277 

"        IV,— THE  ROAD  TO  BAGNERES-DE-LUCHON ,  315 

w          V,— LUCHON 327 

••        VI.— TOULOUSE 343 


i 


i; 


BOOK    I. 


THE    CO  AS  7 


Xj] 


JOURNEY 


TO 


rHE    PYRENEES 


.M  ■«  »*mA^  ■ 


CHAPTER  I. 

BORDEA  UX.—RO  YAN. 

The    river    is    so    fine,   that   before  going    to 
Bayonne   I    have    come  down    as  far  as  Royan. 
Ships  heavy  with    white    sails    ascend  slowly  on 
both   sides   of  the   boat.     At   each   gust  of  wind 
they  incline  like  idle  birds,  lifting  their  long  wing 
and  showing  their  black  belly.      They  run  slant- 
wise, then  come  back ;  one  would  say  that  they  felt 
the  better  for  being  in  this  great  fresh-water  har- 
bor ;  they  loiter  in  it  and  enjoy  its  peace  after  leav- 
ing the  wrath  and  inclemency  of  the  ocean.     The 
banks,  fringed  with  pale  verdure,  glide  right  and 
left,  far  away  to  the  verge  of  heaven ;  the  river  is 
broad  like  a  sea ;  at  this  distance  you  might  think 
you  saw  two  hedges  ;  the  trees  dimly  lift  their  deli- 
cate shapes  in  a  robe  of  bluish  gauze ;  here  and 


-L- 


THE   COAST. 


Book  I. 


there  great  pines  raise  their  umbrellas  on  the 
vapory  horizon,  where  all  is  confused  and  vanish- 
ing* ;  there  is  an  inexpressible  sweetness  in  these 
first  hues  of  the  timid  day,  softened  still  by  the  fog 
which  exhales  from  the  deep  river.  As  for  the  river 
itself,  its  waters  stretch  out  joyous  and  splendid ; 
the  rising  sun  pours  upon  its  breast  a  long  stream- 
let of  gold;  the  breeze  covers  it  with  scales;  its 
eddies  stretch  themselves,  and  tremble  like  an 
awaking  serpent,  and,  when  the  billow  heaves 
them,  you  seem  to  see  the  striped  flanks,  the  taw- 
ney  cuirass  of  a  leviathan. 

Indeed,  at  such  moments  it  seems  that  the  water 
must  live  and  feel ;  it  has  a  strange  look,  when  it 
comes,  transparent  and  sombre,  to  stretch  itself 
upon  a  beach  of  pebbles ;  it  turns  about  them  as  if 
uneasy  and  irritated ;  it  beats  them  with  its  wave- 
lets ;  it  covers  them,  then  retires,  then  comes  back 
again  with  a  sort  of  languid  writhing  and  mysteri- 
ous lovingness ;  its  snaky  eddies,  its  little  crests 
suddenly  beaten  down  or  broken,  its  wave,  sloping, 
shining,  then  all  at  once  blackened,  resembles  the 
flashes  of  passion  in  an  impatient  mother,  who 
hovers  incessantly  and  anxiously  about  her  chil- 
dren, and  covers  them,  not  knowing  what  she 
wants  and  what  fears.  Presently  a  cloud  has 
covered  the  heavens,  and  the  wind  has  risen.  In 
a  moment  the  river  has  assumed  the  aspect  of  a 


ki 


% 


Chap.  I. 


BORDEA  UX—RO  YAN, 


crafty  and  savage  animal.     It  hollowed  itself,  and 
showed  its  livid  belly  ;  it  came  against  the  keel 
with   convulsive    starts,    hugged    it,    and    dashed 
against  it,  as  if  to  try  its  force  ;  as  far  as  one  could 
see,  its  waves  lifted  themselves  and  crowded  to- 
gether, like  the  muscles  upon  a  chest;  over  the 
flank    of   the  waves    passed   flashes  with  sinister 
smiles  ;  the  mast  groaned,  and  the  trees  bent  shiv- 
ering,  like  a  nerveless  crowd  before  the  wrath  of  a 
fearful  beast.     Then  all  was  hushed ;  the  sun  had 
burst  forth,  the  waves  were  smoothed,  you  now  saw 
only  a  laughing  expanse ;  spun  out  over  this  pol- 
ished back  a  thousand  greenish  tresses  sported  wan- 
tonly;   the   light  rested  on  it,   like  a  diaphanous 
mantle  ;  it  followed  the  supple  movements  and  the 
twisting  of  those   liquid    arms ;    it  folded  around 
them,  behind  them,  its  radiant,  azure  robe ;  it  took 
their  caprices  and  their  mobile  colors;    the  river 
meanwhile,  slumbrous  in  its  great,  peaceful  bed, 
was  stretched  out  at  the  feet  of  the  hills,  which 
looked  down  upon  it,  like  it  immovable  and  eternal. 

11. 

The  boat  is  made  fast  to  a  boom,  under  a  pile 
of  white  houses :  it  is  Royan. 

Here  already  are  the  sea  and  the  dunes;  the 
right  of  the  village  is  buried  under  a  mass  of  sand ; 


i 


THE   COAST. 


Book  I. 


Chap.  I. 


BORDEA  UX—RO  VAN. 


there  great  pines  raise  their  umbrellas  on  the 
vapory  horizon,  where  all  is  confused  and  vanish- 
ing;  there  is  an  inexpressible  sweetness  in  these 
first  hues  of  the  timid  day,  softened  still  by  the  fog 
which  exhales  from  the  deep  river.  As  for  the  rivei" 
itself,  its  waters  stretch  out  joyous  and  splendid ; 
the  rising  sun  pours  upon  its  breast  a  long  stream- 
let of  gold ;  the  breeze  covers  it  with  scales ;  its 
eddies  stretch  themselves,  and  tremble  like  an 
awaking  serpent,  and,  when  the  billow  heaves 
them,  you  seem  to  see  the  striped  flanks,  the  taw- 
ney  cuirass  of  a  leviathan. 

Indeed,  at  such  moments  it  seems  that  the  water 
must  live  and  feel ;  it  has  a  strange  look,  when  it 
comes,  transparent  and  sombre,  to  stretch  itself 
upon  a  beach  of  pebbles ;  it  turns  about  them  as  if 
uneasy  and  irritated ;  it  beats  them  with  its  wave- 
lets ;  it  covers  them,  then  retires,  then  comes  back 
again  with  a  sort  of  languid  writhing  and  mysteri- 
ous lovingness ;  its  snaky  eddies,  its  little  crests 
suddenly  beaten  down  or  broken,  its  wave,  sloping, 
shining,  then  all  at  once  blackened,  resembles  the 
flashes  of  passion  in  an  impatient  mother,  who 
hovers  incessantly  and  anxiously  about  her  chil- 
dren, and  covers  them,  not  knowing  what  she 
wants  and  what  fears.  Presently  a  cloud  has 
covered  the  heavens,  and  the  wind  has  risen.  In 
a  moment  the  river  has  assumed  the  aspect  of  a 


crafty  and  savage  animal.  It  hollowed  itself,  and 
showed  its  livid  belly  ;  it  came  against  the  keel 
with  convulsive  starts,  hugged  it,  and  dashed 
against  it,  as  if  to  try  its  force  ;  as  far  as  one  could 
see,  its  waves  lifted  themselves  and  crowded  to- 
gether, like  the  muscles  upon  a  chest;  over  the 
flank  of  the  waves  passed  flashes  with  sinister 
smiles  ;  the  mast  groaned,  and  the  trees  bent  shiv- 
ering, like  a  nerveless  crowd  before  the  wrath  of  a 
fearful  beast.  Then  all  was  hushed ;  the  sun  had 
burst  forth,  the  waves  were  smoothed,  you  now  saw 
only  a  laughing  expanse  ;  spun  out  over  this  pol- 
ished back  a  thousand  greenish  tresses  sported  wan- 
tonly; the  light  rested  on  it,  like  a  diaphanous 
mantle  ;  it  followed  the  supple  movements  and  the 
twisting  of  those  liquid  arms ;  it  folded  around 
them,  behind  them,  its  radiant,  azure  robe ;  it  took 
their  caprices  and  their  mobile  colors ;  the  river 
meanwhile,  slumbrous  in  its  great,  peaceful  bed, 
was  stretched  out  at  the  feet  of  the  hills,  which 
looked  down  upon  it,  like  it  immovable  and  eternal. 

II. 

The  boat  is  made  fast  to  a  boom,  under  a  pile 
of  white  houses :  it  is  Royan. 

Here  already  are  the  sea  and  the  dunes;  the 
right  of  the  village  is  buried  under  a  mass  of  sand ; 


THE    COAST. 


Book  L 


there  are  crumbling  hills,  little  dreary  valleys, 
where  you  are  lost  as  if  in  the  desert ;  no  sound, 
no  movement,  no  life  ;  scanty,  leafless  vegetation 
dots  the  moving  soil,  and  its  filaments  fall  like 
sickly  hairs ;  small  shells,  white  and  empty,  cling 
to  these  in  chaplets,  and,  wherever  the  foot  is  set, 
they  crack  with  a  sound  like  a  cricket's  chirp  ;  this 
place  is  the  ossuary  of  some  wretched  maritime 
tribe.  One  tree  alone  can  live  here,  the  pine,  a 
wild  creature,  inhabitant  of  the  forests  and  sterile 
coasts;  there  is  a  whole  colony  of  them  here; 
they  crowd  together  fraternally,  and  cover  the  sand 
with  their  brown  lamels ;  the  monotonous  breeze 
which  sifts  through  them  forever  awakes  their 
murmur ;  thus  they  chant  in  a  plaintive  fashion, 
but  with  a  far  softer  and  more  harmonious  voice 
than  the  other  trees  ;  this  voice  resembles  the  grat- 
ing of  the  cicadae  when  in  August  they  sing  with  all 
their  heart  among  the  stalks  of  the  ripened  wheat. 
At  the  left  of  the  village,  a  footpath  winds 
to  the  summit  of  a  wasted  bank,  among  billows 
of  standing  grasses.  The  river  is  so  broad 
that  the  other  shore  is  not  distinguishable. 
The  sea,  its  neighbor,  imparts  its  refluence;  its 
long  undulations  come  one  after  another  against 
the  coast,  and  pour  their  little  cascades  of  foam  upon 
the  sand ;  then  the  water  retires,  running  down  the 
slope  until  it  meets  a  new  wave  coming  up  which 


Chap.  I. 


BORDEA  UX—RO  YAN, 


covers  it ;  these  billows  are  never  wearied,  and 
their  come  and  go  remind  one  of  the  regular 
breathing  of  a  slumbering  child.  For  night  has 
fallen,  the  tints  of  purple  grow  brown  and  fade 
away.  The  river  goes  to  rest  in  the  soft,  vague 
shadow;  scarcely,  at  long  intervals,  a  remnant 
glimmer  is  reflected  from  a  slanting  wave  ;  obscur- 
ity drowns  everything  in  its  vapory  dust ;  the 
drowsy  eye  vainly  searches  in  this  mist  some  visi- 
ble point,  and  distinguishes  at  last,  like  a  dim  star, 
the  lighthouse  of  Cordouan. 


III. 

The  next  evening,  a  fresh  sea-breeze  has 
brought  us  to  Bordeaux.  The  enormous  city 
heaps  its  monumental  houses  along  the  river  like 
bastions ;  the  red  sky  is  embattled  by  their  coping. 
They  on  one  hand,  the  bridge  on  the  other,  pro- 
tect, with  a  double  line,  the  port  where  the  vessels 
are  crowded  together  like  a  flock  of  gulls ;  those 
graceful  hulls,  those  tapering  masts,  those  sails 
swollen  or  floating,  weave  the  labyrinth  of  their 
movements  and  forms  upon  the  magnificent  purple 
of  the  sunset.  The  sun  sinks  down  into  the  midst 
of  the  river  and  sets  it  all  ablaze  ;  the  black  rig- 
ging, the  round  hulls,  stand  out  against  its  confla- 
gration, and  look  like  jewels  of  jet  set  in  gold. 


Chap.  IL 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE, 


CHAPTER   II. 

LES  LANDES.—BA  YONNE, 

Around  Bordeaux  are  smiling-  hills,  varied  hori- 
zons,  fresh  valleys,  a   river  peopled  by  incessant 
navigation,    a    succession    of    cities    and    villages 
harmoniously  planted  upon  the  declivities  or  in  the 
plains,  everywhere  the  richest  verdure,  the  luxury 
of  nature  and  civilization,  the  earth  and  man  vying 
with  each  other  to  enrich  and  decorate  the  hap- 
piest valley  of  France.     Below  Bordeaux  a  flat  soil, 
marshes,   sand;    a   land  which    goes  on  growing 
poorer,  villages  continually  less  frequent,  ere  long 
the  desert.     I  like  the  desert  as  well. 

Pine  woods  pass  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  silent 
and  wan.  Each  tree  bears  on  its  side  the  scar  of 
wounds  where  the  woodmen  have  set  flowing  the 
resinous  blood  which  chokes  it ;  the  powerful  liquor 
still  ascends  into  its  limbs  with  the  sap,  exhales  by 
its  slimy  shoots  and  by  its  cleft  skin  ;  a  sharp  aro- 
matic odor  fills  the  air. 

Beyond,  the  monotonous  plain  of  the  ferns, 
bathed  in  light,  stretches  away  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach.     Their  green  fans  expand  beneath  the 


sun  which  colors,  but  does  not  cause  them  to  fade. 
Upon  the  horizon  a  few  scattered  trees  lift  theif 
i  slender  columns.  You  see  now  and  then  the  sil- 
houette of  a  herdsman  on  his  stilts,  inert  and  stand- 
iing  like  a  sick  heron.  Wild  horses  are  grazing 
Ihalf  hid  in  the  herbage.  As  the  train  passes,  they 
abruptly  lift  their  great  startled  eyes  and  stand 
motionless,  uneasy  at  the  noise  that  has  troubled 
their  solitude.  Man  does  not  fare  well  here, — he 
dies  or  degenerates ;  but  it  is  the  country  of  ani- 
mals, and  especially  of  plants.  They  abound  in 
this  desert,  free,  certain  of  living.  Our  pretty,  cut- 
up  valleys  are  but  poor  things  alongside  of  these 
immense  spaces,  leagues  upon  leagues  of  marshy 
or  dry  vegetation,  a  level  country,  where  nature, 
elsewhere  troubled  and  tortured  by  men,  still  vege- 
tates as  in  primeval  days  with  a  calm  equal  to  its 
grandeur.  The  sun  needs  these  savannas  in 
order  properly  to  spread  out  its  light;  from  the 
rising  exhalation,  you  ftel  that  the  whole  plain  is 
fermenting  under  its  force ;  and  the  eyes  filled  by 
the  limitless  horizon  divine  the  secret  labor  by 
which  this  ocean  of  rank  verdure  renews  and  nour- 
ishes itself. 

Night  without  a  moon  has  come  on.  The  peace- 
ful stars  shine  like  points  of  flame  ;  the  whole  air 
is  filled  with  a  blye  and  tender  light,  which  seems 
to  sleep  in  the  network  of  vapor  wherein  it  lies. 


lO 


THE  COAST. 


Book  1 


The  eye  penetrates  it  without  apprehending-  any- 
thing.  At  long  intervals,  in  this  twilight,  a  wood 
confusedly  marks  its  spot,  like  a  rock  at  the  bottom 
of  a  lake ;  everywhere  around  are  vague  depths, 
veiled  and  floating  forms,  indistinct  and  fantastic 
creatures  melting  into  each  other,  fields  that  look 
like  a  billowy  sea,  clumps  of  trees  that  you  might 
take  for  summer  clouds, — the  whole  graceful  chaos 
of  commingled  phantoms,  of  things  of  the  night. 
/(  The  mind  floats  here  as  on  a  fleeting  stream,  and 
/nothing  seems  to  it  real,  in  this  dream,  but  the 
[  pools  which  reflect  the  stars  and  make  on  earth  a 


I  second  heaven.  \ 


11. 


Bayonne  is  a  gay  city,  original  and  half  Span- 
ish. On  all  sides  are  men  in  velvet  vest  and 
small-clothes  ;  you  hear  the  sharp,  sonorous  music 
of  the  tongiie  spoken  beyond  the  mountains. 
Squatty  arcades,  border  the  principal  streets  ;  there 
is  need  of  shade  under  such  a  sun. 

A  pretty  episcopal  palace,  in  its  modern  ele- 
gance, makes  the  ugly  cathedral  still  uglier.  The 
poor,  abortive  monument  piteously  lifts  its  belfry, 
that  for  three  centuries  has  remained  but  a  stump. 
Booths  are  stuck  in  its  hollow^,  after  the  manner 
?  of  warts  ;  here  and  there  they  have  laid  on  a  rude 


Chap.  II. 


ZES  LANDES—BA  YONNE, 


II 


plaster  of  stone.  The  old  invalid  is  a  sad  specta- 
cle alongside  of  'the  new  houses  and  busy  shops 
which  crowd  around  its  grimy  flanks. 

I  was    quite    troubled  at  this    decrepitude,  and 
'when   once    I    had  entered,   I  became   still   more 
melancholy.     Darkness  fell  from  the  vault  like  a 
winding-sheet;    I  could    make   out    nothing  but 
worm-eaten  pillars,  smoke-darkened  pictures,  ex- 
panses of  greenish  wall.     Two  fresh  toilettes  that 
I  met  increased  the  contrast ;  nothing  could  shock 
one  more  in  this  place  than  rose-colored  ribbons. 
I  was  looking  upon  the  spectre  of  the  middle  ages ; 
how  opposed  to  it  are  the  security  and  abundance 
of  modern  life  !  Those  sombre  vaults,  those  slender 
columns,  those  rose  windows,  blood-dyed,  called 
up  dreams  and  emotions  which  are  now  impossible 
for  us.     You  should  feel  here  what   men  felt  six 
hundred  years  ago,  when  they  swarmed  forth  from 
their    hovels,    from    their    unpaved,     six-feet-wide 
streets,   sinks    of   uncleanness,   and    reeking  with 
fever  and  leprosy;    when    their    unclad    bodies, 
undermined  by  famine,  sent  a  thin  blood  to  their 
brutish   brains;    when   wars,   atrocious   laws,   and 
legends  of  sorcery  filled  their  dreams  with  vivid 
and  melancholy  images ;  when  over  the  bedizened 
draperies,  over  the  riddles  of  painted  glass,   the 
rose  windows,  like  a  conflagration  or  an  aureole, 
poured  their  transfigured  rays. 


ta 


TffE  COAST. 


Book  I, 


These  are  the  remembrances  of  fever  and  ecsta 
sy :  to  get  rid  of  them  I  have  come  out  to  the 
port ;  it  is  a  long  alley  of  old  trees  at  the  side  of 
the  Adour.     Here    all    is    gay  and    picturesque. 
Serious  oxen,  with  lowered  heads,  drag  the  beams 
that  are  being  unloaded.     Rope-makers,  girt  with 
a  wisp  of  hemp,  walk  backward  tightening  their 
threads,   and    twining    their    ever-growing  cable. 
The  ships  in  file  are  made  fast  at  the  quay;  the 
slender  cordage  outlines  its  labyrinth  against  the 
sky,  and  the  sailors  hang  in   it  hooked  on  like 
spiders  in  their  web.     Great  casks,  bales,  pieces  of 
wood  are  strewn  pell-mell  over  the  flags. 

You  are  pleased  to  feel  that  man  is  working  and 
prosperous.    And  here  nature  too  is  as  happy  as 
man.      The  broad  silver  river  unrolls  itself  under 
the  radiance  of  the  morning.    Slender  clouds  throw 
out  on  the   azure   their  band  of  mother-of-pearl. 
The  sky  is  like  an  arch  of  lapis-lazuli.     Its  vault 
rests  on  the  confines  of  the  flood  which  advances 
waveless  and  effordess,  under  the  glitter  of  its  peace- 
ful undulations,  between  two  ranges  of  declivity, 
away  to  a  hill  where  pine-woods  of  a  tender  green 
slope  down  to  meet  it,  as  graceful  as  itself     The 
tide  meanwhile  rises,  and  the  leaves  on  the  oaks 
begin  to  shine,  and  to  whisper  under  the  feeble  wind 
off  the  sea. 


Chap.  II.  LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE. 


n 


III. 

It  rains :  the  inn  is  insupportable.  It  is  stifling 
under  the  arcades ;  I  am  bored  at  the  cafe,  and 
am  acquainted  with  nobody.  The  sole  resource  is 
to  go  to  the  library.     That  is  closed. 

Fortunately  the  librarian  takes  pity  on  me,  and 
opens  for  me.  Better  yet,  he  brings  me  all  sorts  of 
charters  and  old  books ;  he  is  both  very  learned  and 
very  amiable,  explains  everything  to  me,  guides,  in- 
forms and  installs  me.  Here  I  am  then  in  a  corner, 
alone  at  a  table,  with  the  documents  of  a  fine  and 
thoroughly  enjoyable  history ;  it  is  a  pastoral  of  the 
middle  ages.  I  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  to 
tell  it  over  for  my  own  benefit. 

Pe  de  Puyane  was  a  brave  man  and  a  skilful  sailor, 
who  in  his  day  was  Mayor  of  Bayonne  and  admiral ; 
but  he  was  harsh  with  his  men,  like  all  who  have 
managed  vessels,  and  would  any  day  rather  fell  a 
man  than  take  off  his  cap.    He  had  long  waged  war 
against  the  seamen  of  Normandy,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion he  hung  seventy  of  them  to  his  yards,  cheek 
by  jowl  with  some  dogs.    He  hoisted  on  his  galleys 
red  flags  signifying  death  and   no  quarter,  and  led 
to  the  battle  of    Ecluse   the   great  Genoese   ship 
Christophle,    and    managed    his    hands    so    well 
that   no   Frenchman   escaped;    for   they   were   all 


12 


THE  COAST, 


Book  I, 


These  are  the  remembrances  of  fever  and  ecsta 
sy :  to  get  rid  of  them  I  have  come  out  to  the. 
port ;  it  is  a  long  alley  of  old  trees  at  the  side  of 
the  Adour.     Here    all    is    gay   and    picturesque. 
Serious  oxen,  with  lowered  heads,  drag  the  beams 
that  are  being  unloaded.     Rope-makers,  girt  with 
a  wisp  of  hemp,   walk  backward  tightening  their 
threads,    and    twining    their    ever-growing   cable. 
The  ships  in  file  are  made  fast  at  the  quay;  the 
slender  cordage  outlines  its  labyrinth  against  the 
sky,   and  the  sailors  hang   in   it   hooked  on  like 
spiders  in  their  web.     Great  casks,  bales,  pieces  of 
wood  are  strewn  pell-mell  over  the  flags. 

You  are  pleased  to  feel  that  man  is  working  and 
prosperous.    And  here  nature  too  is  as  happy  as 
man.      The  broad  silver  river  unrolls  itself  under 
the  radiance  of  the  morning.    Slender  clouds  throw 
out  on  the   azure   their   band  of  mother-of-pearl. 
The  sky  is  like  an  arch  of  lapis-lazuli.     Its  vault 
rests  on  the  confines  of  the  flood  which  advances 
waveless  and  effordess,  under  the  glitter  of  its  peace- 
ful  undulations,  between  two  ranges  of  declivity, 
away  to  a  hill  where  pine-woods  of  a  tender  green 
slope  down  to  meet  it,  as  graceful  as  itself     The 
tide  meanwhile  rises,  and  the  leaves  on  the  oaks 
begin  to  shine,  and  to  whisper  under  the  feeble  wind 
off  the  sea. 


Chap.  II. 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE. 


n 


III. 

It  rains :  the  inn  is  insupportable.  It  is  stifling 
under  the  arcades ;  I  am  bored  at  the  cafe,  and 
am  acquainted  with  nobody.  The  sole  resource  is 
to  go  to  the  library.     That  is  closed. 

Fortunately  the  librarian  takes  pity  on  me,  and 
opens  for  me.  Better  yet,  he  brings  me  all  sorts  of 
charters  and  old  books ;  he  is  both  very  learned  and 
very  amiable,  explains  everything  to  me,  guides,  in- 
forms and  installs  me.  Here  I  am  then  in  a  corner, 
alone  st  a  table,  with  the  documents  of  a  fine  and 
thoroughly  enjoyable  history ;  it  is  a  pastoral  of  the 
middle  ages.  I  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  to 
tell  it  over  for  my  own  benefit. 

Pe  de  Puyane  was  a  brave  man  and  a  skilful  sailor, 
who  in  his  day  was  Mayor  of  Bayonne  and  admiral ; 
but  he  was  harsh  with  his  men,  like  all  who  have 
managed  vessels,  and  would  any  day  rather  fell  a 
man  than  take  off  his  cap.  He  had  long  waged  war 
against  the  seamen  of  Normandy,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion he  hung  seventy  of  them  to  his  yards,  cheek 
by  jowl  with  some  dogs.  He  hoisted  on  his  galleys 
red  flags  signifying  death  and  no  quarter,  and  led 
to  the  battle  of  Ecluse  the  great  Genoese  ship 
Christophley  and  managed  his  hands  so  well 
that   no   Frenchman   escaped;    for   they   were   all 


14 


THE  COAST, 


Book  i. 

and  Bahuche,  having  surrendered  themselves.  Ba 
huchet  had  a  cord  tightened  around  his  neck,  while 
.  Quieret  had  his  throat  cut.  That  was  good  manage- 
ment ;  for  the  more  one  kills  of  his  enemies,  the  kss 
he  has  of  them.  For  this  reason,  the  people  of 
Bayonne,  on  h.s  return,  entertained  him  with  such 

and  all  sorts  of  mstruments.  that  it  would  have  been 
Impossible  on  that  day  to  hear  even  the  thunder  of 

It  happened  that  the  Basques  would  no  longer 
pay   the  tax  upon   cider,   which   was   brewed  at 
Bayonne  for  sale  in  their  country.     Pe  de  Puyane 
said  that  the  merchants  of  the  city  should  carry 
them  no  more,  and  that,  if  any  one  carried  them 
any.  he  should  have  his  hand  cut  off.   Pierre  Cambo 
mdeed.  a  poor  man.  having  carted  two  hogshead^ 
of  It  by  mght.  was  led  out  upon  the  market-place 
before  Notre  Dame  de  Saint-Le'on.  which  was'then 
buddmg.  and    had    his    hand   amputated,  and  the 
vems  arterwards  stopped  with  red-hot  irons;  after 
that  he  was  driven  in  a  tumbrel  throughout  the  city, 
which  was  an  excellent  example;  for  the  smaller  folk 
should   always   do   the   bidding  of   men    in   high 
position.  ^ 

Afterwards,  P^  de  Puyane  having  assembled  the 
hundred  peers  in  the  town-house,  showed  them  that 


!hap.  II. 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE, 


15 


the  Basques  being  traitors,  rebels  toward  the  sei- 
gniory of  Bayonne,  should  no  longer  keep  the  fran- 
chises which  had  been  granted  them ;  that  the  sei- 
gniory of  Bayonne,  possessing  the  sovereignty  of 
the  sea,  might  with  justice  impose  a  tax  in  all  the 
places  to  which  the  sea  rose,  as  if  they  were  in  its 
port,  and  that  accordingly  the  Basques  should  hence- 
forth pay  for  passing  to  Villefranche,  to  the  bridge 
of  the  Nive,  the  limit  of  high  tide.  All  cried  out 
that  that  was  but  just,  and  Pe  de  Puyane  declared 
the  toll  to  the  Basques  ;  but  they  all  fell  to  laughing, 
saying  they  were  not  dogs  of  sailors  like  the  mayor's 
Subjects.  Then  having  come  in  force,  they  beat  the 
bridgemen,  and  left  three  of  them  for  dead. 

Pe  said  nothing,  for  he  was  no  great  talker ;  but 
he  clinched  his  teeth,  and  looked  so  terribly  around 
him,  that  none  dared  ask  him  what  he  would  do, 
nor  urge  him  on,  nor  indeed  breathe  a  word.  From 
the  first  Saturday  in  April  to  the  middle  of  August, 
several  men  were  beaten,  as  well  Bayonnais  as  Bas- 
ques, but  still  war  was  not  declared,  and,  when  they 
talked  of  it  to  the  mayor,  he  turned  his  back. 

Tlie  twenty-fourth  day  of  August,  many  noble 
men  among  the  Basques,  and  several  young  people, 
good  leapers  and  dancers,  came  to  the  castle  of 
Miot  for  the  festival  of  Saint  Bartholomew.  They 
feasted  and  showed  off  the  whole  day,  and  the  young 
people  who  jumped  the  pole,  with  their  red  sashes 


i6 


THE   COAST. 


Book  I. 


Chap.  II. 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE, 


IT 


and  white  breeches,  appeared  adroit  and  handsome. 
That   night    came  a   man  who  talked   low  to  the 
mayor,  and  he,  who  ordinarily  wore  a  grave  and  judi- 
cial air,  suddenly  had  eyes  as  bright  as  those  of  a 
youth  who  sees  the  coming  of  his  bride.     He  went 
down  his  staircase  with  four  bounds,  led  out  a  band 
of  old  sailors  who  were  come  one  by  one,  coverdy, 
into  the  lower  hall,  and  set  out  by  dark  night  with 
several  of  the  wardens,  having  closed  the  gates  of 
the  city  for  fear  that  some  traitor,  such  as  there  are 
everywhere,  should  go  before  them. 

Having  arrived  at  the  castle  they  found  the  draw- 
bridge  down  and  the  postern  open,  so  confident  and 
unsuspecting  were  the  Basques,  and  entered,  cut- 
lasses drawn  and  pikes  forward,  into  the  great  hall. 
There  were  killed  seven  young  men  who  had  barri- 
caded  themselves  behind  tables,  and  would  there 
make  sport  with  their  dirks;  but  the  good  halberds, 
well  pointed  and  sharp  as  they  were,  soon  silenced 
them.     The  others,  having  closed   the  gates  from 
within,  thougjit   that  they  would    have   power   to 
defend  themselves  or  time  to  flee ;  but  the  Bayonne 
marines,  with    their  great  axes,  hewed    down  the 
planks,  and  split  the  first  brains  which  happened  to 
be  near.    The  mayor,  seeing  that  the  Basques  were 
tighdy  girt  with  their  red  sashes,  went  about  saying 
(for  he  was  usually  facetious  on  days  of  batde) : 
"  Lard  these  fine  gallants  for  me ;  forward  the  spit 


into  their  flesh  justicoats  ;  "  and  in  fact  the  spits  wenl 
.forward  so  that  all  were  perforated  and  opened, 
some  through  and  through,  so  that  you  might  have 
seen  daylight  through  them,  and  that  the  hall  half 
an  hour  after  was  full  of  pale  and  red  bodies,  several 
bent  over  benches,  others  in  a  pile  in  the  corners, 
some  with  their  noses  glued  to  the  table  like  drunk- 
ards, so  that  a  Bayonnais,  looking  at  them,  said: 
'*  This  is  the  veal  market."  Many,  pricked  from 
behind,  had  leaped  through  the  windows,  and  were 
found  next  morning,  with  cleft  head  or  broken  spine, 
in  the  ditches.  There  remained  only  five  men  alive, 
noblemen,  two  named  d'Urtubie,  two  de  Saint-Pe, 
and  one,  de  Lahet,  whom  the  mayor  had  set  aside 
as  a  precious  commodity ;  then,  having  sent  some 
one  to  open  the  gates  of  Bayonne  and  command 
the  people  to  come,  he  ordered  them  to  set  fire  to 
the  castle.  It  was  a  fine  sight,  for  the  castle  burned 
from  midnight  until  morning ;  as  each  turret,  wall  or 
floor  fell,  the  people,  delighted,  raised  a  great  shout. 
There  were  volleys  of  sparks  in  the  smoke  and 
flames  that  stopped  short,  then  beg^n  again 
suddenly,  as  at  public  rejoicings ;  so  that  the 
warden,  an  honorable  advocate,  and  a  great  liter- 
ary man,  uttered  this  saying :  "  Fine  festival  for 
Bayonne  folk ;  for  the  Basques  great  barbecue  of 
hogs." 

The  castle  being  burned,  the  mayor  said  to  the 


i8 


THE  COAST. 


Book  I 


Chap.  II. 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE. 


19 


five  noblemen  that  he  wished  to  deal  with  them 
with  all  friendliness,  and  that  they  should  them- 
selves be  judges,   if  the  tide  came  as   far  as  the 
bridge ;  then  he  had  them  fastened  two  by  two  to 
the  arches  until  the  tide  should  rise,  assuring  them 
that  they  were  in  a  good  place  for  seeing.     The 
people  were  all  on  the  bridge  and  along  the  banks, 
watching  the  swelling  of  the  flood.     Little  by  little 
It  mounted  to  their  breasts,  then  to  their  necks,  and 
they  threw  back   their   heads    so  as  to  lift   their 
mouths  a  little  higher.     The  people  laughed  aloud, 
calling  out  to  them  that  the  time  for  drinking  had 
come,  as  with  the  monks  at  matins,  and  that  they 
would   have  enough   for   the  rest   of  their   days. 
Then  the  water  entered  the  mouth  and  nose  of  the 
three  who  were  lowest;  their  throats  gurgled  as 
when  botries  are  filled,  and  the  people  applauded, 
saying  that  the  drunkards  swallowed  too  fast,  and 
were  going   to   strangle  themselves    out   of  pure 
greediness.     There  remained  only  the  two  men,  d' 
'Urtubie,  bound  to  the   principal  arch,  father  and 
son,  the  son  a  little  lower  down.     When  the  father 
saw  his  child  choking,  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
with  such  force  that  a  cord  broke  :  but  that  was  all, 
and  the  hemp  cut  into  his  flesh  without  his  being 
able  to  get  any  further.     Those  above,  seeing  that 
the  youth's  eyes  were  rolling,  while  the  veins  on  his 
forehead  were  purple  and  swollen,  and  that  the  wa- 


ter bubbled  around  him  with  his  hiccough,  called 
him  baby,  and  asked  why  he  had  sucked  so 
hard,  and  if  nurse  was  not  coming  soon  to  put  him 
to  bed.  At  this  the  father  cried  out  like  a  wolf, 
spat  into  the  air  at  them,  and  called  them  butchers 
and  cowards.  That  offended  them  so  that  they 
began  throwing  stones  at  him  with  such  sure  aim 
that  his  white  head  was  soon  reddened  and  his 
right  eye  gushed  out ;  it  was  small  loss  to  him,  for 
shortly  after,  the  mounting  wave  shut  up  the  other. 
When  the  water  was  gone  down,  the  mayor  com- 
manded that  the  five  bodies,  which  hung  with  necks 
twisted  and  limp,  should  be  left  a  testimony  to  the 
Basques  that  the  water  of  Bayonne  did  come  up  to 
the  bridge,  and  that  the  toll  was  justly  due  from 
them.  He  then  returned  home  amidst  the  accla- 
mations of  his  people,  who  were  delighted  that  they 
had  so  good  a  mayor,  a  sensible  man,  a  great  lover 
of  justice,  quick  in  wise  enterprises,  and  who  ren- 
dered to  every  man  his  due. 

As  he  was  setting  out,  he  had  put  sixty  men  at 
the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  in  the  toll-tower,  order- 
ing them  to  look  out  well  for  themselves,  and  warn- 
ing them  that  the  Basques  would  not  be  slow  in 
seeking  to  avenge  themselves.  But  they  flattered 
themselves  that  they  still  had  at  least  one  good 
night,  and  they  busied  their  throats  mightily  with 
emptying   flagons.      Towards   the   middle   of   the 


90 


THE  COAST. 


Book  I. 


night,   there    being    no    moon,    came    up    about 
two    hundred    Basques;    for    they   are    alert    a& 
the  antelope,*   and   their   runners   had   awakened 
that   morning   more   than    twenty  villages    in    the 
Soule  with  the  story  of  fire  and  drowning.     The 
younger  men,  with   several  older   heads,  had  set 
out  forthwith  by   crooked   circuitous  paths,    bare- 
foot, that  they  might  make  no  noise,  well  armed 
with    cutlasses,    crampoons    and    several    slender 
rope-ladders ;    and,  adroit  as  foxes,  they  had  stolen 
to  the  base  of  the  tower,  to  a  place  on  the  eastern 
side  where  it  plunges  straight  down  to  the  bed  of 
the  river,  a  real  quagmire,  so  that  here  there  was 
no  guard,  and  the  rolling  of  the  water  on  the  peb- 
bles might  drown  their  slight  noise,  should  they 
make   any.     They  fixed   their   crampoons   in   the 
crannies  of  the  stones,  and,   little  by  little,  Jean 
Amacho,  a  man  from  Behobie,  a  noted  hunter  of 
mountain  beasts,  climbed  upon  the  battlements  of 
the  first  wall,  then,  having  steadied  a  pole  against 
a  window  of  the  tower,  he  entered  and  hooked  on 
two  ladders  ;  the  others  mounted  in  their  turn,  until 
there  were  about  fifty  of  them ;  and  new  men  were 
constantly  coming,  as  many  as  the  ladders  would 
bear,  noiselessly  striding  over  the  window-sill. 
They  were  in  a  little,  low  ante-room,  and  from 

•  Alertes  comme  des  isards— The  isard  ox  y sard,  is  the  chamois-antelope 
of  the  Pyrenees,  often  caUed  a  chamois.— Translator. 


Chap.  II. 


LES  LANDES^BA  YONNE, 


21 


thence,  in  the  great  hall  of  the  first  floor,  six 
steps  below  them,  they  beheld  the  Bayonnais,  of 
whom  there  were  but  three  in  this  place,  two 
asleep,  and  a  third  who  had  just  waked  up  and 
was  rubbing  his  eyes,  with  his  back  turned  to  the 
small  door  of  the  ante-room.  Jean  Amacho  gave  a 
sign  to  the  two  men  who  had  mounted  immediately 
after  him,  and  all  jumped  together  with  a  single 
leap,  and  so  nicely  that,  at  the  same  moment,  theii 
three  knives  pierced  the  throats  of  the  Bayonnais, 
who,  bowing  their  limbs,  sank  without  a  cry  to  the 
ground.  The  other  Basques  then  came  in,  and 
waited  at  the  verge  of  the  great  balustraded  stair- 
case leading  into  the  lower  hall  where  were  the 
Bayonnais,  some  in  a  heap  sleeping  near  the  fire- 
place, others  calling  out  and  sharpset  at  feasting. 

One  of  these  feeling  that  his  hair  was  moist,  lifted 
his  head,  saw  some  little  red  streams  running  from 
between  the  joists  of  the  ceiling,  and  began  to  laugh, 
saying  that  the  greedy  fellows  up  there  could  no 
longer  hold  their  cups,  and  were  wasting  good 
wine,  which  was  very  wrong  of  them.  But  finding 
that  this  wine  was  quite  warm,  he  took  some  on  his 
finger,  then  touched  his  tongue,  and  saw,  by  the  in- 
sipid taste,  that  it  was  blood.  He  proclaimed  this 
aloud,  and  the  Bayonnais  starting  up  grasped  their 
pikes  and  ran  for  the  staircase.  Thereupon  the 
Basques   who   had   waited,   not  being  sufficiently 


22 


THE  COAST, 


Book  I, 


Chap.  II. 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE, 


«3 


numerous,  wished  to  recover  the  moment  and  rushed 
forth ;  but  the  first  comers  felt  the  point  of  the  pikes, 
and  were  Hfted,  just  as  bundles  of  hay  are  spitted 
on  the  forks  to  be  thrown  into  a  loft;  then  the 
Bayonnais,  holding  themselves  close  together,  and 
bristling  in  front  with  pikes,  began  to  mount. 

Just  then  a  vahant  Basque,  Antoine  Chaho,  and 
two  others  with  him,  dropped  down  along  the  wall, 
lizard  fashion,  making  a  cover  of  dead  bodies ;  and 
gliding  between  the  great  legs   of  the  sailors  of 
Bayonne,  began  work  with  their  knives  upon  their 
hamstrings ;  so  that  the  Bayonnais,  wedged  in  the 
stairway,  and  embarrassed  by  the  men  and  the  pikes 
that  were  falling  crosswise,  could  neither  get  on  nor 
wield  their  spits  with  such  nicety.     At  this  moment, 
Jean  Amacho  and  several  young  Basques,  having 
espied  their  moment,  leaped  more  than  twenty  feet 
clear  into  the  middle  of  the  hall,  to  a  place  where 
no  halberds  were  ready,  and  began  cutting  throats 
with  great   promptness,   then,   thrown  upon  their 
knees,  fell  to  ripping  open  bellies ;  they  killed  far 
more  than  they  lost,  because  they  had  deft  hands, 
while  many  were  well  padded  with  wool  and  wore 
leather  shirts,   and  besides,   the  handles   to   their 
knives  were  wound  with  cord  and    did  not  slip. 
Moreover  the  Basques  from  above,  who  now  num- 
bered more  than  a  hundred,  rolled  down  the  stair- 
case like  a  torrent   of  goats;  new  ones  came  up 


every  moment,  and  in  every  corner  of  the  hall,  man 
to  man,  they  began  to  run  each  other  through. 

There  died  Jean  Amacho  in  a  sad  enough  fashion, 
and  from  no  fault  of  his  own ;  for  after  he  had  cut 
the  throat  of  a  Bayonnais, — his  ordinary  mode  of 
killing,  and,  indeed,  the  best  of  all, — he  held  his 
head  too  near,  and  the  jet  from  the  two  great  veins 
of  the  neck  spirted  into  his  face  like  the  froth  from  a 
jar  of  perry  as  it  is  uncorked,  and  suddenly  shut  up 
both  his  eyes  ;  accordingly  he  was  unable  to  avoid  a 
Bayonnais  who  was  at  his  left ;  the  fellow  planted 
his  dagger  in  Jean's  back,  who  spit  out  blood,  and 
died  a  minute  after. 

But  the  Bayonnais,  who  were  less  numerous  and 
less  adroit,  could  make  no  stand,  and  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour  there  remained  only  a  dozen  of  them, 
driven  into  a  corner  near  a  little  cellar  where  were 
kept  the  jugs  and  bottles.  In  order  the  sooner  to 
reduce  these,  the  Basques  gathered  together  the 
pikes,  and  began  driving  through  this  heap  of  men ; 
and  the  Bayonnais,  as  anybody  will  on  feeling  an 
iron  point  prick  through  his  skin,  stepped  back  and 
rolled  together  into  the  cellar.  Just  at  this  moment 
the  torches  went  out,  and  the  Basques,  in  order  not 
to  wound  each  other,  dressed  the  whole  armful  of 
pikes,  and  harpooned  at  random  forward  into  the 
cellar  during  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  so  as 
to  make  sure  that  no  Bayonnais  remained  alive; 


THE  COAST, 


Book  I. 


\ 


C.'IAP.  II. 


LES  LANDES—BA  YONNE. 


ae 


24 

liiTthus,  when  all  ^i^^come  tranquil,  and  the 
torches  were  relighted,  and  they  looked  in,  they  saw 
that  the  cellar  resembled  a  pork-butcher's  chopping- 
block,  the  bodies  being  cut  in  twenty  places,  and 
separated  from  their  heads,  and  the  limbs  being  con- 
fusedly thrown  together,  till  only  salt  was  wantmg 
to  make  a  salting-tub  of  the  place. 

But  the  younger  of  the  Basques,  although  there 
was  nothing  more  to  kill,  rolled  their  eyes  all  around 
the  hall,  grinding  their  teeth  like  hounds  after  the 
quarry ;  they  cried  aloud  continually,  tremblmg  in 
their  limbs  and  clenching  their  fingers  after  the  han- 
dles of  their  daggers;  several,  wounded  and  white- 
lipped,  no  longer  felt  their  wounds  or  their  loss  of 
blood,  remained  crouching  beside  the  man  they  had 
last  killed,  and  then  involuntarily  leaped  to  their  feet 
One  or  two  laughed  with  the  fixity  of  madmen,  and 
varied  this  with  a  hoarse  roar ;  and  there  was  in 
the  room  such  a  mist  of  carnage  that  any  one  seeing 
them  reeling  or  howling  thus,  might  have  believed 
them  drunk  with  wine. 

At  sunrise,  when  they  had  loosed  the  five  drowned 
men  from  the  arches,  they  cast  all  the  Bayonnais 
upon  the  current  of  the  stream,  and  said  that  they 
might  go  down  thus  to  their  sea,  and  that  this  cart- 
ful of  dead  flesh  was  such  toll  as  the  Basques  would 
pay.  The  congealed  wounds  were  opened  again 
by  the  coldness  of  the  water;  it  was  a  fine  sight: 


by  means  of  the  blood  that  flowed,  the  river  blushed 
[red  as  a  morning  sky. 

After  this  the  Basques  and  the  men  of  Bayonne 
fought  several  years  more,  man  against  man,  band 
against  band ;  and  many  brave  men  died  on  both 
sides.  At  the  end,  the  two  parties  agreed  to  sub- 
mit to  the  arbitration  of  Bernard  Ezi,  Sire  d'Albret. 
The  lord  of  Albret  said  that  the  men  of  Bayonne, 
since  they  had  made  the  first  attack,  were  in  fault ; 
he  ordained  that  in  future  the  Basques  should  pay 
no  toll,  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  city  of  Bayonne 
should  pay  them  fifteen  hundred  new  golden 
crowns  and  should  establish  ten  priestly  preben- 
daryships,  which  should  cost  four  thousand  old 
crowns  of  the  first  coinage  of  France,  of  good  gold 
and  loyal  weight,  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  the 
five  gentlemen  drowned  without  confession,  which, 
perchance,  were  in  purgatory,  and  had  need  of 
many  masses  in  order  to  get  out.  But  the  Basques 
were  unwilling  that  Pe  de  Puyane,  the  mayor, 
should  be  included  in  this  peace,  either  he  or  his 
sons,  and  they  reserved  the  right  to  pursue  them 
until  they  had  taken  vengeance  on  his  flesh  and  his 
race.  The  mayor  retired  to  Bordeaux,  to  the 
house  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  of  whom  he  was 
a  great  friend  and  good  servant,  and  during  two 
years  did  not  go  outside  of  the  city,  excepting  three 
or  four  times,  well  steeled,  and  attended  by  men-at- 

2 


26 


THE  COAST, 


Book  i. 


I 


arms.  But  one  day,  when  he  had  gone  to  see  a 
vineyard  he  had  bought,  he  withdrew  a  little  from 
his  troop  to  lift  a  great  black  vine-stock  which  was 
falling  into  the  ditch;  a  moment  after,  his  men  y 
heard  a  little  sharp  cry,  like  that  of  a  thrush  caught 
in  a  snare ;  when  they  had  run  up  they  saw  Pe  de 
Puyane  dead,  with  a  knife  a  fathom  long  which  had 
entered  by  the  armpit  where  he  was  unprotected 
by  his  cuirass.  His  elder  son,  Sebastian,  who  had 
fled  to  Toulouse,  was  killed  by  Augustin  de  Lahet, 
nephew  of  the  man  who  was  drowned ;  the  other, 
Hugues,  survived  and  founded  a  family,  since,  hav- 
ing gone  by  sea  to  England,  he  remained  there, 
and  received  from  King  Edward  a  knight's  fief. 
But  neither  he  nor  his  children  ever  returned  into 
Gascony;  they  did  wisely,  for  they  would  have 
found  there  their  grave-diggers. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BIARRITZ.—SAINT-JEAN-DE-L  UZ, 

I. 

Half  a  league  off,  at  the  turning  of  a  road, 
may  be  seen  a  hill  of  a  singular  blue  :  it  is 
the  sea.  Then  you  descend,  by  a  winding  route, 
to  the  village. 

A  melancholy  village,  with  the  taint  of  hotels, 
white  and  regular,  cafes  and  signs,  ranged  by 
stages  upon  the  arid  coast ;  for  grass,  patches  of 
poor  starveling  turf;  for  trees,  frail  tamarisks  which 
cling  shivering  to  the  earth  ;  for  harbor,  a  beach 
and  two  empty  creeks.  The  smaller  conceals  in 
Its  sandy  recess  two  barks  without  masts,  without 
sails,  to  all  appearance  abandoned. 

The  waters  consume  the  coast ;  great  pieces  of 
earth  and  stone,  hardened  by  their  shock,  fifty  feet 
aivay  from  the  shore,  lift  their  brown  and  yellow 
spine,  worn,  raked,  gnawed,  jagged,  scooped  out 
by  the  wave,  resembling  a  troop  of  stranded  whales. 
The  billow  barks  or  bellows  in  their  hollow  bowels, 
in  their  deep  yawning  jaws ;  then,  after  they  have 
engulfed  it,  they  vomit  it  forth  in  jets  and  foam 
against  the  lofty  shining  waves  that  forever  return 


V 


28 


THE   COAST, 


Book  L 


Chap.  III.  BIARRITZ.— SAINT-JEAN-DE-LUZ, 


29 


to  the  assault.  Shells  and  polished  pebbles  are  in- 
crusted  upon  their  head.  Here  furzes  have  rooted 
their  patient  stems  and  the  confusion  of  their  thorns ; 
this  hairy  mantle  is  the  only  one  capable  of  clinging 
to  their  flanks,  and  of  standing  out  against  the 
spray  of  the  sea. 

To  the  left,  a  train  of  ploughed  and  emaciated 
rocks  stretches  out  in  a  promontory  as  far  as  an 
arcade   of  hardened  beach,  which  the   high  tides 
have  opened,  and  whence  on  three  sides  the  eye 
looks  down  upon  the  ocean.     Under  the  whistling 
north  wind  it  bristles  with  violet  waves ;  the  pass- 
ing clouds  marble  it  with  still  more  sombre  spots  ; 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach   is  a   sickly  agitation 
of  wan    waves,   chopping  and  disjointed,  a  sort  of 
moving  skin  that  trembles,  wrenched  by  an  inward 
fever ;  occasionally  a  streak  of  foam  crossing  them 
marks  a  more  violent  shock.      Here  and  there,  be- 
tween  the  intervals  of  the  clouds,    the  light  cuts 
out  a  few  sea-green  fields  upon  the  uniform  plain ; 
their  tawny  lustre,  their  unhealthy  color,  add  to  the 
strangeness    and    to   the   limits    of   the    horizon. 
These  sinister  changing  lights,  these  tin-like  reflec- 
tions   upon  a  leaden    swell,    these    white  scoria 
clinging  to    the  rocks,    this    slimy   aspect   of  the 
waves    suggest  a  gigantic  crucible   in  which  the 
metal  bubbles  and  gleams. 

But  toward  evening  the  air  clears  up  and  the 


/ 


wind  falls.  The  Spanish  coast  is  visible,  and  its 
chain  of  mountains  softened  by  distance.  The 
long  dentation  undulates  away  out  of  sight,  and  its 
misty  pyramids  at  the  last  vanish  in  the  west,  be- 
tween the  sky  and  the  ocean.  The  sea  smiles  in  its 
blue  robe,  fringed  with  silver,  wrinkled  by  the  last 
puff"  of  the  breeze ;  it  trembles  still,  but  with  plea- 
sure, and  spreads  out  its  lustrous,  many-hued  silk, 
with  voluptuous  caprices  beneath  the  sun  that 
warms  it.  Meanwhile  a  few  serene  clouds  poise 
above  it  their  down  of  snow ;  the  transparency  of 
the  air  bathes  them  in  angelic  glory,  and  their  mo- 
tionless flight  suggests  the  souls  in  Dante  stayed 
in  ecstasy  at  the  entrance  of  paradise. 

It  is  night ;  I  have  come  up  to  a  solitary  espla- 
nade where  is  a  cross,  and  whence  is  visible  the 
*  sea  and  the  coast.  The  coast,  black,  sprinkled  with 
j,  lights,  sinks  and  rises  in  indistinct  hillocks.  The 
sea  mutters  and  rolls  with  hollow  voice.  Occa- 
sionally,  in  the  midst  of  this  threatening  breath- 
ing comes  a  hoarse  hiccough,  as  if  the  slumbering 
wild  beast  were  waking  up  ;  you  cannot  make  it 
out,  but  from  a  nameless  something  that  is  sombre 
and  moving,  you  divine  a  monstrous,  palpitating 
^back;  in  its  presence  man  is  Hke  a  child  before  the 
air  of  a  leviathan.  Who  assures  us  that  it  will 
ontinue  to  tolerate  us  to-morrow?  On  land  we 
el  ourselves  master ;  there  our  hand  finds  every* 


% 


30 


THE  COAST, 


Book  I. 


where  its  traces ; .  it  has  transformed  everything  and 
put  everything  to  its  service ;  the  soil  now-a-days 
is  a  kitchen-garden,  the  forests  a  grove,  the  rivers 
trenches.  Nature  is  a  nurse  and  a  servant.  But  here 
still  exists  something  ferocious  and  untamable. 
The  ocean  has  preserved  its  liberty  and  its  om- 
nipotence ;  one  of  its  billows  would  drown  our  hive ; 
over  there  in  America  its  bed  lifts  itself;  it  will 
crush  us  without  a  thought;  it  has  done  it  and 
will  do  it  again  ;  just  now  it  slumbers,  and  we 
live  clinging  to  its  flank  without  dreaming  that  it 
sometimes  wants  to  turn  itself  about. 


II. 

There  is  a  light-house  to  the  north  of  the  vil- 
lage, an   esplanade  of  beach   and   prickly   plants. 
Vegetation  here   is  as  rough  as  the   ocean.     Do 
not  look  to   the  left ;  the  pickets  of  soldiers,  the 
huts  of  the  bathers,  the  ennuyes,  the  children,  thei 
invalids,  the  drying  linen,  it  is  all  as   melancholy 
as  a  caserne  and  a  hospital.     But  at  the  foot  of  theJ 
light-house    the    beautiful    green     waves    hollov^,j 
themselves  and  scale  the  rocks,  scattering  upon  tht 
wind  their  plume  of  foam  ;  the  billows  come  up  to  1 
the  assault  and  mount  one  upon  another,  as  agile 
and   hardy    as   charging    horsemen ;    the   caverns  f 
rumble ;  the  breeze  whispers  with  a  happy  sound  ,| 


/ 


Chap.  III.  BIARRITZ.—SAINT-JEAN-DE-LUZ.  31 

it  enters  the  breast  and  expands  the  muscles ;  you 
fill  your  lungs  with  the  invigorating  saltness  of  the 
sea. 

Farther  on,  ascending  towards  the  north,  are 
paths  creeping  along  the  cliffs.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  last,  solitude  opens  out ;  everything  human  has 
disappeared ;  neither  houses,  nor  culture,  nor  ver- 
dure. It  is  here  as  in  the  first  ages,  at  a  time  when 
man  had  not  yet  appeared,  and  when  the  water, 
the  stone,  and  the  sand  were  the  sole  inhabi- 
tants of  the  universe.  The  coast  stretches  into  the 
vapor  its  long  strip  of  polished  sand;  the  gilded 
beach  undulates  softly  and  opens  its  hollows  to  the 
ripples  of  the  sea.  Each  ripple  comes  up  foamy  at 
first,  then  insensibly  smooths  itself,  leaves  behind 
it  the  flocks  of  its  white  fleece,  and  goes  to  sleep 
upon  the  shore  it  has  kissed.  Meanwhile  another 
approaches,  and  beyond  that  again  a  new  one, 
then  a  whole  troop,  striping  the  bluish  water  with 
embroidery  of  silver.  They  whisper  low,  and  you 
scarcely  hear  them  under  the  outcry  of  the  distant 
billows ;  nowhere  is  the  beach  so  sweet,  so  smil- 
ing,— the  land  softens  its  embrace  the  better  to 
receive  and  caress  those  darling  creatures,  which 
are,  as  it  were,  the  little  children  of  the  sea. 


s» 


THE  COAST. 


Book  L 


Chap.  III.  BIARRITZ.— SAINTJEAN-DE-LUZ, 


33 


III. 

It  has  rained  all  night ;  but  this  morning  a  brisk 
wind  has  dried  the  earth;  and  I  have  come 
along  the  coast  to  Saint-Jean-de-Luz. 

Everywhere  the  wasted  cliffs  drop  perpendicu- 
larly down ;  dreary  hillocks,  crumbling  sand  ;  mis- 
erable grasses  that  strike  their  filaments  into  the 
moving  soil ;  streamlets  that  vainly  wind  and  are 
choked,  pushed  back  by  the  sea ;  tortured  inlets, 
and  naked  strands.  The  ocean  tears  and  depopu- 
lates its  beach.  Everything  suffers  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  old  tyrant.  As  you  contem- 
plate here  its  aspect  and  its  work,  the  antique 
superstitions  seem  true.  It  is  a  melancholy  and 
hostile  god,  forever  thundering,  sinister,  sudden  in 
caprice,  whom  nothing  appeases,  nothing  subdues, 
who  chafes  at  being  kept  back  from  the  land,  em- 
braces it  impatiently,  feels  it  and  shakes  it,  and 
to-morrow  may  recapture  it  or  break  it  in  pieces. 
Its  violent  waves  start  convulsively  and  twist  them- 
selves, clashing  like  the  heads  of  a  great  troop  of 
wild  horses ;  a  sort  of  grizzling  mane  streams  on 
the  edge  of  the  black  horizon ;  the  gulls  scream ; 
they  are  seen  darting  down  into  the  valley  that  is 
scooped  out  between  two  surges,  then  reap- 
pearing ;  they  turn  and  look  strangely  at  you  with 


their  pale  eyes.      One  would  say  that  they  are  de- 
lighted with  this  tumult  and  are  awaiting  a  prey. 

A  little  farther  on,  a  poor  hut  hides  itself  in  a 
bay.  Three  children  ragged,  with  naked  legs, 
were  playing  there  in  a  stream  that  was  over- 
flown. A  great  moth,  clogged  by  the  rain,  had  fall- 
en into  a  hole.  They  conducted  the  water  to  it 
with  their  feet,  and  dabbled  in  the  cold  mud ;  the 
rain  fell  in  showers  on  the  poor  creature,  which 
vainly  beat  its  wings;  they  laughed  boisterously, 
stumbling  about  and  holding  on  to  each  other  with 
their  red  hands.  At  that  age  and  amidst  such  pri- 
vation nothing  more  was  wanting  to  make  them 
happy. 

The  road  ascends  and  descends,  winding  on 
high  hills  which  denote  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Pyrenees.  The  sea  reappears  at  each  turn,  and  it 
is  a  singular  spectacle,  this  suddenly  lowered  hori- 
zon, and  that  greenish  triangle  broadening  toward 
heaven.  Two  or  three  villages  stretch  along  the 
route,  their  houses  dropping  down  the  heights  like 
flights  of  stairs.  From  the  white  houses  the  women 
come  out  in  black  gown  and  veil  to  go  to  mass. 
The  sombre  color  announces  Spain.  The  men,  in 
velvet  vests,  crowd  to  the  public  house  and  drink 
coffee  in  silence.  Poor  houses,  a  poor  country  ;  un- 
der a  shed  I  have  seen  them  cooking,  in  the  guise 

of  bread,  cakes  of  maize  and  barley.     This  destitu 
2*  ^ 


34 


THE  COAST, 


Book  I, 


tion  is  always  touching.  What  is  it  that  a  day- 
laborer  has  gained  by  our  thirty  centuries  of  civili- 
zation ?  Yet  he  has  gained,  and  when  we  accuse 
ourselves,  it  is  because  we  forget  history.  He  no 
longer  has  the  small-pox,  or  the  leprosy;  he  no 
longer  dies  of  hunger,  as  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
under  Montluc  ;  he  is  no  longer  burned  as  a  witch, 
as  happened  indeed  under  Henry  IV.  here  in  this 
very  place  ;  he  can,  if  he  is  a  soldier,  learn  to  read, 
become  an  officer;  he  has  coffee,  sugar,  linen. 
Our  descendants  will  say  that  that  is  but  Htde; 
our  fathers  would  have  said  that  it  is  a  good  deal. 

St.  Jean-de-Luz  is  a  little  old  city  with  narrow 
streets,  to-day  silent  and  decaying ;  its  mariners 
once  fought  the  Normans  for  the  king  of  England ; 
thirty  or  forty  ships  went  out  every  year  for  the 
whale-fishery.  Now-a-days  the  harbor  is  empty ; 
this  terrible  Biscayan  sea  has  thrice  broken  down 
its  dike.  Against  this  roaring  surge,  heaped  up  all 
the  way  from  America,  no  work  of  man  holds  out.  ; 
The  water  was  engulfed  in  the  channel  and  came 
like  a  race-horse  high  as  the  quays,  lashing  the 
bridges,  shaking  its  crests,  grooving  its  wave; 
then  it  thundered  heavily  into  the  basins,  some- 
times with  leaps  so  abrupt  that  it  fell  over  the  para- 
pets like  a  mill-dam,  and  flooded  the  lower  part  of 
the  houses.  One  poor  boat  danced  in  a  corner  at 
the  end  of  a  rope  ;  no  seamen,  no  rigging,  no  cord- 


Chap.  Ill    BIARRITZ,^SAINT-JEAN-DE-LUZ, 


35 


age;  such  is  this  celebrated  harbor.  They  say, 
however,  that  half  a  league  away,  there  are  five  or 
six  barks  in  a  creek. 

From  the  dike  the  tumult  of  the  high  tide  was 
visible.  A  massive  wall  of  black  clouds  girt  the 
horizon ;  the  sun  blazed  through  a  crevice  like  a 
fire  through  the  mouth  of  a  furnace,  and  overflowed 
upon  the  billow  its  conflagration  of  ferruginous 
flames.  The  sea  leaped  like  a  maniac  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  harbor,  smitten  by  a  band  of  invisible 
rocks,  and  joined  with  its  white  line  the  two  horns 
of  the  coast.  The  waves  came  up  fifteen  feet  high 
against  the  beach,  then,  undermined  by  the  falling 
water,  fell  head  foremost,  desperate,  with  frightful 
howling;  they  returned  however  to  the  assault, 
and  mounted  each  minute  higher,  leaving  on  the 
beach  their  carpet  of  snowy  foam,  and  fleeing  with 
the  slight  shivering  of  a  swarm  of  ants  foraging 
among  dry  leaves.  Finally  one  of  them  came  wet- 
ting the  feet  of  the  men  who  were  watching  from  the 
top  of  the  dike.  Happily,  it  was  the  last ;  the  city 
is  twenty  feet  below,  and  would  be  only  a  mass  of 
ruins  if  some  great  tide  were  urged  on  by  a  hurri 
cane. 


36 


THE   COAST, 


Book  I. 


Chap.  III.  BIARRITZ.— SAINT-JEAN-DE-LUZ. 


37 


IV. 

A  NOBLE  hotel,  with  broad  halls,  and  grand  an- 
tique apartments,  displays  itself  at  the  corner 
of  the  first  basin  facing  the  sea.  Anne  of  Austria 
lodged  there  in  1660,  at  the  time  of  the  marriage 
of  Louis  XIV.  Above  a  chimney  is  still  to  be  seen 
the  portrait  of  a  princess  in  the  garb  of  a  goddess. 
Were  they  not  goddesses?  A  tapestried  bridge 
went  from  this  house  to  the  little  church,  sombre  and 
splendid,  traversed  by  balconies  of  black  oak,  and 
loaded  with  glittering  reliquaries.  The  married 
pair  passed  through  it  between  two  hedges  of  Swiss 
and  bedizened  guards,  the  king  all  embroidered 
with  gold,  with  a  hat  ornamented  with  diamonds ; 
the  queen  in  a  mantle  of  violet  velvet  sprinkled 
with  fleur-de-lis,  and,  underneath,  a  habit  of  white 
brocade  studded  with  precious  stones,  a  crown  up- 
on her  head.  There  was  nothing  but  processions, 
entries,  pomps  and  parades.  Who  of  us  now-a- 
days  would  wish  to  be  a  grand  seigneur  on  con- 
dition of  performing  at  this  rate  ?  The  weariness 
of  rank  would  do  away  with  the  pleasures  of  rank  ; 
one  vv^ould  lose  all  patience  at  being  an  embroidered 
manikin,  always  exposed  to  public  view  and  on  exhi- 
bition. Then,  that  was  the  whole  of  life.  When 
M.  de  Crequi  was  going  to  carry  to  the  infanta  the 


\ 


s 


) 


presents  of  the  king,  '*  he  had  sixty  persons  in  liv- 
ery in  his  suite,  with  a  great  number  of  noblemen 
and  many  friends."  The  eyes  took  delight  in  this 
splendor.  Pride  was  more  akin  to  vanity,  enjoy- 
ments were  more  on  the  surface.  They  needed  to 
display  their  power  in  order  to  feel  it.  The  courtly 
life  had  applied  the  mind  to  ceremonies.  They 
learned  to  dance,  as  now-a-days  to  reflect;  they 
passed  whole  years  at  the  academy ;  they  studied 
with  extreme  seriousness  and  attention  the  art  of 
bowing,  of  advancing  the  foot,  of  holding  them- 
selves erect,  of  playing  with  the  sword,  of  setting 
the  cane  properly ;  the  obligation  of  living  in  pub- 
lic constrained  them  to  it ;  it  was  the  sign  of  their 
rank  and  education ;  they  proved  in  this  way  their 
alliances,  their  world,  their  place  with  the  king, 
their  title.  Better  yet,  it  was  the  poetry  of  the 
time.  A  fine  manner  of  bowing  is  a  fine  thing; 
it  recalled  a  thousand  souvenirs  of  authority  and 
of  ease,  just  as  in  Greece  an  attitude  recalled  a 
thousand  souvenirs  of  war  and  the  gymnasium ;  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  neck,  a  limb  nobly  extend- 
ed, a  smile  complaisant  and  calm,  an  ample  trail- 
ing petticoat  with  majestic  folds,  filled  the  soul  with 
lofty  and  courdy  thoughts,  and  these  great  lords 
were  the  first  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  they  afforded. 
*'  I  went  to  carry  my  offering,"  said  Mile,  de  Mont- 
pensier,  ''  and  performed  my  reverences  as  did  no 


M 


.\ 


38 


THE  COAST, 


Book  L 


39 


one  else  of  the  company ;  I  found  myself  suitable 
enough  for  ceremonial  days  ;  my  person  held  its 
place  there  as  my  name  in  .the  world."  These 
words  explain  the  infinite  attention  that  was  given 
to  questions  of  precedence  and  to  ceremonies ; 
Mademoiselle  is  inexhaustible  6n  this  point ;  she 
talks  like  an  upholsterer  and  a  chamberlain  ;  she  is 
uneasy  to  know  at  what  precise  moment  the 
Spanish  grandees  take  off  their  hats ;  if  the  king  of 
Spain  will  kiss  the  queen-mother  or  will  only  em- 
brace her:  these  important  interests  trouble  her. 
In  fact,  at  that  time  they  were  important  interests. 
Rank  did  not  depend,  as  in  a  democracy,  upon 
proved  worth,  on  acquired  glory,  on  power  exer- 
cised or  riches  displayed,  but  upon  visible  preroga- 
tives transmitted  by  inheritance  or  granted  by  the 
king :  so  that  they  fought  for  a  tabouret  or  a  man- 
tle, as  now-a-days  for  a  place  or  for  a  million. 
Among  other  treacheries  they  plotted  to  lodge 
Mademoiselle*s  sisters  with  the  queen.  **  The  pro- 
position displeased  me ;  they  would  have  eaten 
with  her  always,  which  I  did  not.  That  roused  my 
pride.  I  was  desperate  at  that  moment."  The  war- 
fare was  yet  greater  when  it  came  to  the  marriage. 
''  It  occurred  to  somebody  that  it  was  necessary  to 
carry  an  offering  to  the  queen,  so  I  could  not  beat 
her  train,  and  it  must  be  my  sisters  who  would  carry 
it  with  Mme.  de  Carignan.     As  soon  as  there  was 


Chap.  III.  BIARRITZ,  -^SAINT-JEAN-DE-L  UZ, 

talk  of  bearing  trains,  the  Duke  de  Roquelaure 
had  offered  to  carry  mine.     They  sought  for  dukes 
to  carry  those  of  my  sisters,  and,  as  not  one  was 
willing  to  do  it,  Mme.  de  Saugeon  cried  aloud  tha.t 
Madame  would  be  in  despair  at  this  distinction." 
What  happiness  to  walk  first  upon  the  tapestried 
bridge,  the  train  held  up  by  a  duke,  while  the 
others  go  shamefully  behind,  with  a  train,  but  with- 
out a  duke !     But  suddenly  others  put  in  a  claim. 
Mme.  d'Uzes  comes  running  up  in  a  fright:    it  is 
question  of  an  atrocious  usurpation.    ''  The  princess 
palatine  will  have  a  train ;  will  you  not  put  a  stop 
to  that  ?  "    They  get  together ;  they  go  to  the  king ; 
Ji     they  represent  to  him  the  enormity  of  the  deed : 
the  king  forbids  this  new  train  as  usurping  and 
JP^     criminal,  and  the  princess,  who  weeps  and  storms, 
declares  that  she  will  not  be  present  at  the  mar- 
riage if  they  deprive  her  of  her  appendix.     Alas ! 
all    human   prosperity   has   its    reverses;     Made- 
moiselle,  so  happy  in  the  matter  of  trains,  could  not 
get  to  kiss  the  queen,  and,  at  this  interdict,  she  re- 
mained all  day  plunged  in  the  deepest  grief.     But, 
you  see,  the  pursuits  of  rank  had  been,  from  in- 
fancy, her  sole  concern ;  she  had  wanted  to  marry 
all  the  princes  in  the  worid,  and  ever  in  vain ;  the 
person  mattered  little  to  her.     First  the  cardinal  in- 
fante,  the  reverse  of  an  Amadis;  at  the   age  of 
)        dreams,  on  the  threshold  of  youth,  among  the  vague 


V 


0 


i 


K 


40 


THE  COAST, 


Book  I. 


Chap.  III.  BIARRITZ,-SAINT-JEAN-DE^LUZ, 


41 


visions  and  first  enchantments  of  love,  she  chose 
this  old  churl  in  a  ruff  to  enthrone  herself  with  him, 
in  a  fine  arm-chair,  in  the  government  of  the  Low 
Countries.     Then  Philip  IV.  of  Spain  ;  the  emperor 
Ferdinand,  the  arch-duke :  negotiating  with  them 
herself,  exposing  her  envoy  to  the  risk  of  hanging. 
Then  the  king  of  Hungary,  the  future  king  of  Eng- 
land, Louis  XIV.,  Monsieur,  the  king  of  Portugal. 
Who  could  count  them  ?     At  a  pinch,  she  went  to 
work  in  advance :  the  princess  of  Conde  being  ill, 
then  in  the  family  way,  this  romantic  head  fancied 
that  the  prince  was  going  to  become  a  widower, 
and  wanted  to  retain  him  for  a  husband.     No  one 
took  this  hand  that  she  had  stretched  to  all  Europe. 
In  vain  she  fired  cannon  in  the  Fronde;    she  re- 
mained to  the  end  an  adventuress,  a  state  puppet, 
a  weathercock,  occasionally  exiled,  twenty  times  a 
widow,  but  always  before  the  wedding,   carrying 
over  the  whole  of  France  the  weariness  and  imagi- 
nations of  her  involuntary  celibacy.     At  last  Lau- 
zun  appeared ;  to  marry  her,  and  secretly  at  that, 
cost  him  the  half  of  his  wealth ;  the  king  drew  the 
dowry  of  his  bastard  from  the  misalliance  of   his 
cousin.     It   was    an    exemplary   household:     she 
scratched  him:  he  beat  her. — We  laugh  at  these 
pretensions   and   bickerings,   at   these  mischances 
and  aristocratic  quarrels ;  our  turn  will  come,  rest 
assured  of  that ;  our  democracy  too  affords  matter 


# 

\}j%. 


of  laughter :  our  black  coat  is,  like  their  embroidtir- 
ed  coat,  laced  with  the  ridiculous  ;  we  have  envy, 
melancholy,  the  want  of  moderation  and  of  polite- 
ness, the  heroes  of  George  Sand,  of  Victor  Hugo 
and  of  Balzac.     In  fact,  what  does  it  matter  ? 

''Sifflez-moi  librement ;  je  votis  le  rends,  mes 
freresy  So  talked  Voltaire,  who  gave  to  all  the 
world  at  once  the  charter  of  equality  and  gayety.  \ 


'.      K 


> 


\ 


f 


BOOK   II. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


( 


CHAPTER  I. 


DAX.^ORTHEZ. 


f 


I. 

I  SAW  Dax  in  passing,  and  I  recall  only  two  rows 
of  white  walls  of  staring  brightness,  into  which  low 
doorways  here  and  there  sank  their  black  arches 
^with  a  strange  relief.  An  old  and  thoroughly  for- 
bidding cathedral  bristled  its  bell-turrets  and  denta- 
tions in  the  midst  of  the  pomp  of  nature  and  the 
joyousness  of  the  light,  as  if  the  soil,  burst  open, 
had  once  put  forth  out  of  its  lava  a  heap  of  crystal- 
lized sulphur. 

The  postilion,  a  good  fellow,  takes  up  a  poor 
woman  on  the  way,  and  sets  her  beside  him  on  his 
seat.  What  gay  people  !  They  sing  in  patois, — 
there,  they  are  singing  now.  The  conductor  joins 
in,  then  one  of  the  people  in  the  imperiale.  They 
laugh  with  their  whole  heart ;  their  eyes  sparkle. 
How  far  we  are  from  the  north !  In  all  these 
southern  folk  there  is  verve  /  occasionally  poverty, 
fatigue,  anxiety  crush  it ;  at  the  least  opening,  it 
gushes  forth  like  living  water  in  full  sunlight. 

This  poor  woman  amuses  me.  She  is  fifty  years 
old,  without  shoes,  garments  in  shreds,  and  not  a  sou 
in  her  pocket.  She  talks  familiarly  with  a  stout,  well- 


46 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  1 


( 


./ 


dressed  gendeman,  who  is  behind  her.  No  humility ;   S 
she  believes  herself  the  equal  of  the  whole  world.     *' 
Gayety  is  like  a  spring  rendering  the  soul  elastic ;  th'^*  /  jf^ 
people  bend  but  rise  again.     An  Englishman  wouL  \ 
be  scandalized.    Several  of  them  have  said  to  me  thai 
the  French  nation   have   no  sentiment  of  respect 
That  is  why  we  no  longer  have  an  aristocracy. 

The  chain  of  the  mountains  undulates  to  the  \\ 
left,  bluish  and  like  a  long  stratum  of  clouds.  The 
rich  valley  resembles  a  great  basin  full  to  overflow- 
ing of  fruit-trees  and  maize.  White  clouds  hover 
slowly  in  the  depths  of  heaven,  like  a  flock  of  tran- 
quil swans.  The  eye  rests  on  the  down  of  their 
sides,  and  turns  with  pleasure  upon  the  roundness 
of  their  noble  forms.  They  sail  in  a  troop,  carried 
on  by  the  south  wind,  with  an  even  flight,  like  a 
family  of  blissful  gods,  and  from  up  above  they  seem 
to  look  with  tenderness  upon  the  beautiful  earth 
which  they  protect  and  are  going  to  nourish. 


II. 

Orthez,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  was  a  capital; 
of  this  grandeur  there  remains  but  the  wreck: 
ruined  walls  and  the  high  tower  of  the  castle  hung 
with  ivy.  The  counts  of  Foix  had  there  a  little  state, 
almost  independent,  proudly  planted  between  the 
realms  of  France,  England  and  Spain.     The  people 


r 


\ 


I 


\ 


i 


Chap.  I. 


DAX,— ORTHEZ. 


47 


have  gained  in  something,  I  know  ;  they  no  longer 
hate  their  neighbors,  and  they  live  at  peace ;  they 
receive  from  Paris  inventions  and  news ;  peace, 
trade  and  well-being  are  increased.  They  have, 
iowever,  lost  in  something;  instead  of  thirty  active 
'  thinking  capitals,  there  are  thirty  provincial  cities, 
torpid  and  docile.  The  women  long  for  a  hat,  the 
men  go  to  smoke  at  a  cafe ;  that  is  their  life ;  they 
scrape  together  a  few  empty  old  ideas  from  imbecile 
newspapers.  In  old  times  they  had  thoughts  on 
politics  and  courts  of  love. 

III. 

The  good  Froissart  came  here  in  the  year  1388, 
having  ridden  and  chatted  about  arms  all  along 
the  route  with  the  chevalier  Messire  Espaing  de 
Lyon  ;  he  lodged  in  the  inn  of  the  Beautiful  Hostess, 
which  was  then  called  the  hotel  of  the  Moon.  The 
count  Gaston  Phoebus  sent  in  all  haste  to  seek  him : 
**  for  he  was  the  lord  who  of  all  the  world  the  most 
gladly  entertained  the  stranger  in  order  to  hear  the 
news."  Froissart  passed  twelve  weeks  in  his  hotel : 
**  for  they  made  him  good  cheer  and  fed  well  his 
horses,  and  in  all  things  also  ordered  well." 

Froissart  is  a  child,  and  sometimes  an  old  child. 
At  that  time  thought  was  expanding,  as  in  Greece 
in  the  time  of  Herodotus.     But,  while  we  feel  that 


1/7 


48 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  II. 


Chap.  I. 


DAX.—ORTHEZ. 


49 


in  Greece  it  is  going  on  to  unfold  itself  to  the  very 
end,  we  discover  here  that  an  obstacle  checks  it : 
there  is  a  knot  in  the  tree ;  the  arrested  sap  can 
mount  no  higher.     This  knot  is  scholasticism.  u 

For,  during  three  centuries  already  they  he: 
written  in  verse,  and  for  two  centuries  in  prose  ;  after 
this  long  culture,  see  what  a  historian  is  Froissart. 
One  morning  he  mounts  on  horseback  with  several 
valets,  under  a  beautiful  sun,  and  gallops  onward ; 
a  lord  meets  him  whom  he  accosts :  '*  Sir,  what  is 
this  castle  ?  "  The  other  tells  him  about  the  sieges, 
and  what  grand  sword-thrusts  were  there  exchanged. 
"  Holy  Mary,"  cried  Froissart,  '*  but  your  words 
please  me  and  do  me  a  deal  of  good,  while  you  tell 
them  off  to  me  !  And  you  shall  not  lose  them,  for 
all  shall  be  set  in  remembrance  and  chronicled  in 
the  history  which  I  am  pursuing."  Then  he  has 
explained  to  himself  the  kindred  of  the  seigneur, 
his  alliances,  how  his  friends  and  enemies  have  lived 
and  are  dead,  and  the  whole  skein  of  the  adventures 
interwoven  during  two  centuries  and  in  three  coun- 
tries. "  And  as  soon  as  I  had  alighted  at  the  ho- 
tels, on  the  road  that  we  were  following  together, 
I  wrote  them  down,  were  it  evening  or  morning, 
for  the  better  memory  of  them  in  times  to  come ; 
for  there  is  no  such  exact  retentive  as  writing." 
All  is  found  here,  the  pell-mell  and  the  hundred 
shifts  of  the  conversations,  the  reflections,  the  little 


X 


accidents  of  the  journey.     An  old  squire  recounts 
to  him  mountain   legends,  how  Pierre  de  Bfearn. 
having   once  killed   an   enormous  bear,  could  no 
longer  sleep  in  peace,  but  thenceforward  he  awaked 
i;ach  night,  "  making  such  a  noise  and  such  clatter 
that  it  s'eemed  that  all  the  devils  in  hell  should  have 
carried  away  everything  and  were  inside  with  him." 
Froissart  judges  that    this   bear   was   perhaps   a 
knight  turned  into  a  beast  for  some  misdeed ;  cites 
in  support  the  story  of  Actaeon,  an  "  accomplished 
and  pretty  knight  who  was  changed  into  a  stag." 
Thus  goes  his  life  and  thus  his  history  is  composed ; 
it  resembles  a  tapestry  of  the  period,  brilliant  and 
varied,  full  of  hunting,  of  tournaments,  battles  and 
processions.     He  gives  himself  and  his  hearers  the 
pleasure  of  imagining  ceremonies  and  adventures ; 
no  other  idea,  or  rather  no  idea.     Of  criticism,  gen- 
eral considerations,  reasoning  upon  man  or  society, 
counsels  or  forecast,  there    is    no  trace ;  it  is   a 
herald  at  arms  who  seeks  to  please  curious  eyes, 
the  warlike  spirit  and  the  empty  minds  of  robust 
knights,  great  eaters,  lovers  of  thumps  and  pomps. 
Is  k  not  strange,  this  barrenness  of  reason  !     In 
Greece,  at  the  end  of  an  hundred  years,  Thucydides, 
Plato  and  Xenophon,  philosophy  and  science  had 
appeared.     By  way  of  climax,  read  the  verses  of 
Froissart,   those  ballads,  roundelays   and  virelays 
that  he  recited  of  evenings  to  the  Count  de  Foix. 
3 


I  i 


so 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II 


) 


■^ 


DAX.-ORTHEZ. 


b* 


"  who  took  great  solace  in  hearing  them  indeed/' 
the  old  rubbish  of  decadence,  worn,  affected  alle- 
gories, the  garrulousness  of  a  broken-down  pedant 
who  amuses  himself  in  composing  wearisome  turns  ^ 
of  address.  And  the  rest  are  all  alike.  Charle. 
d' Orleans  has  a  sort  of  faded  grace  and  nothing 
more,  Christine  de  Pisan  but  an  official  solemnity. 
Such  feeble  spirits  want  the  force  to  give  birth  to 
general  ideas  ;  they  are  bowed  down  under  the 
weight  of  those  which   have   been  hooked  on  to 

them. 

The  cause  is  not  far  to  seek ;  think  of  that  stout 
cornific*  doctor  with  leaden  eyes,  a  confrere  o^ 
Froissart,  if  you  like,  but  how  different !  He  holds 
in  his  hand  his  manual  of  canon-law,  Peter  the 
Lombard,  a  treatise  on  the  syllogism.  For  ten  hours 
a  day  he  disputes  in  Baralipton  on  the  hiccoeity. 
As  soon  as  he  became  hoarse,  he  dipped  his  nose 
again  into  his  yellow  folio ;  his  syllogisms  and  quid- 
dities ended  by  making  him  stupid;  he  knew 
nothing  about  things  or  dared  not  consider  them ; 
he  only  wielded  words,  shook  formulas  together, 
bruised  his  own  head,  lost  all  common  sense,  and 
reasoned  like  a  machine  for  Latin  verses.f  What 
a  master  for  the  sons  of  noblemen,  and  for  keen 


*  Cornificietiy  a  name  given  by  Jean  of  Sarisberg  to  those  who  disfigured 
dialnctics  by  their  extravagant,  cornus  arguments. — Translator. 

f  See  the  discourse  of  Jean  Petit  on  the  assassination  of  the  Duke  of 
Orleans, 


i 


Chap.  I  _^ 

p;;;;^;;;;;^^^^^;^  an   education  was  tWs 
labyrinth  of  dry  logic  and   extravagant  scholast.- 
cism.     Tired,  disgusted,  irritated,    ^'-^-^^^^ 
forgot  the  ugly  dream  as  soon  as  possible  ran  m  , 
.he  open  air.  and  thought  only  of  the  ch^e,  of  war 
Ind  the  ladies ;  they  were  not  so  foohsh  as  to  turn 
their  eyes  a  second  time  towards    the.r  crabbed 
litany  ;  if  they  did  come  back  to  it,  that  was  out  of 
vanity ;    they  wanted  to   set  some  Latm  faUe  m 
their  songs,  or  some   learned  abstraction,  without 
orprehenilng  a  word  of  it,  Conning  it  ^rfa^^^^^^^^ 
sake  as  the  ermine  of  learning.     With  us  o    to 
day  general  ideas  spring  up  in  every  mmd^livmg 
ad  Lrishing  ones ;  among  the  laity  of  that  time 
their  root  was  cut  off.  and  among  the  clergy  there 
emained    of   them   but    a  fagot  of    dead  wood 
And  so   mankind   was   only  the  better   fitted  fo 
1  life  of  the  body  and  more  capable  o^vj 
passions;  with  regard  to  this  ^^e  style  °f  Froissart 
artless   as  it  is.  deceives  us.     We  think  we  are 

listening  to  the  pretty  g--^^^^^^^    in^utst^thl 
play  •  beneath  this  prattle  we  must  distinguish  the 
'Z:  voice  of  the   combatants,   bear-hunters   and 
..nters  of  men  too.  and  the  b^oa^^  c^^^^^^^^^ 
pitality  of  feudal  manners.     At  midnight  the 
of  Foix  came  to  supper  in  the  great  hall.        Before 
him  went  twelve  lighted  torches,  borne  by  twelve 
valets  :  and  the  same  twelve  torches  were  held  be- 


i' 


52 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II.( 


fore  his  table  and  gave  much  light  unto  the  hall, 
which  was  full  of  knights  and  squires  ;  and  always 
there  were  plenty  of  tables  laid  out  for  any  person 
who  chose  to  sup."  It  must  have  been  an  as- 
tonishing sight,  to  see  those  furrowed  faces  and  I 
powerful  frames,  with  their  furred  robes  and  their 
justicoats  streaked  under  the  wavering  flashes  of 
the  torches.  One  Christmas  day,  going  into  his 
gallery,  he  saw  that  there  was  but  a  small  fire, 
and  spoke  of  it  aloud.  Thereupon  a  knight, 
Ernauton  d'Espagne,  having  looked  out  of  the 
window,  saw  in  the  court  a  number  of  asses  with 
"billets  of  wood  for  the  use  of  the  house.  He 
seized  the  largest  of  these  asses  with  his  load, 
threw  him  over  his  shoulders  and  carried  him  up 
stairs "  (there  were  twenty-four  steps),  ''  pushing 
through  the  crowd  of  knights  and  squires  who 
were  round  the  chimney,  and  flung  ass  and  load, 
with  his  feet  upward,  on  the  dogs  of  the  hearth, 
to  the  delight  of  the  count,  and  the  astonishment 
of  all.*'  Here  are  the  laughter  and  the  amusement 
of  barbaric  giants.  They  wanted  noise,  and 
songs  proportioned  to  it.  Froissart  tells  of  a 
banquet  when  bishops,  counts,  abbes,  knights, 
nearly  one  hundred  in  number,  were  seated  at 
table.  '*  There  were  very  many  minstrels  in  the 
hall,  as  well  those  belonging  to  the  count  as  to 
the  strangers,  who,  at  their  leisure,  played  away 


I 


%k 


I 


Chap.  I. 


VAX.—ORTHEZ. 


53 


their  minstrelsy.     Those  of  the  duke  de  Touraine 
played  so  loud  and  so  well  that  the  count  clothed 
them  '  with  cloth  of  gold  trimmed  with  ermine.'  " 
'*This    count,"    says    Froissart,    "reigned    pru- 
lently;    in  all  things  he  was  so  perfect  that  one 
"^ould  not  praise  him  too    much.     No  great  con- 
temporary prince  could  compare  with  him  in  sense, 
honor    and    wisdom."      In   that   case     the    great 
princes  of  the  day  were  not  worth  much.     With 
justice  and  humanity,  the  good  Froissart  scarcely 
troubles  himself;  he  finds  murder  perfectly  natural  ; 
indeed,   it   was  the  custom;    they  were  no  more 
astonished  at  it,  than  at  a  snap  of  the  jaws  in  a 
wolf     Man  then  resembled  a  beast  of  prey,  and 
when  a  beast  of  prey  has  eaten  up  a  sheep  nobody 
is  scandalized  thereby.     This  excellent  Count  de 
Foix  was  an  assassin,  not  once  only,  but  ten  times. 
For   example,   he   coveted  the   casde  of  Lourdes, 
and  so  sent  for  the  captain,   Pierre  Ernault,  who 
had  received  it  in  trust  for  the  prince  of  Wales. 
Pierre     Ernault    "became    very    thoughtful    and 
doubtful  whether  to  go  or  not."     At  last  he  went, 
and  the  count  demanded  from  him  the  castle  of 
Lourdes.      The  knight  thought   awhile   what  an- 
swer   to     make.        However,     having     well    con- 
sidered, he  said :     *'  My  lord,  in  truth  I  owe  you 
faith  and  homage,  for  I  am  a  poor  knight  of  your 
blood   and    country;    but    as    for   the    castle   of 


54 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book   TT. 


Chap.  I. 


DAX.—ORTHEZ. 


55 


•rt 


Lourdes,  I  will  never  surrender  it  to  you.  You 
have  sent  for  me,  and  you  may  therefore  do  with 
me  as  you  please.  I  hold  the  castle  of  Lourdes 
from  the  king  of  England,  who  has  placed  me 
there ;  and  to  no  other  person  but  to  him  will 
ever  surrender  it."  The  Count  de  Foix,  on  hear- 
ing this  answer,  was  exceedingly  wroth,  and  said, 
as  he  drew  his  dagger,  *'  Ho,  ho,  dost  thou  then 
say  so  ?  By  this  head,  thou  hast  not  said  it  for 
nothing."  And,  as  he  uttered  these  words,  he 
struck  him  foully  with  the  dagger,  so  that  he 
wounded  him  severely  in  five  places,  and  none  of 
the  barons  or  knights  dared  to  interfere.  The 
knight  replied,  *'  Ha,  ha,  my  lord,  this  is  not  gentle 
treatment ;  you  sent  for  me  here,  and  are  murder- 
ing me."  Having  received  these  five  strokes  from 
the  dagger,  the  count  ordered  him  to  be  cast  into 
the  dungeon,  which  was  done  ;  and  there  he  died, 
for  he  was  ill-cured  of  his  wounds." 

This  dominance  of  sudden  passion,  this  violence 
of  first  impulse,  this  flesh  and  blood  emotion,  and 
abrupt  appeal  to  physical  force,  are  cropping  out 
continually  in  the  people.  At  the  slightest  insult 
their  eyes  kindle  and  blows  fall  like  hail.  As  we 
were  leaving  Dax,  a  diligence  passed  ours,  grazing 
one  of  the  horses.  The  conductor  leaped  down 
from  his  seat,  a  stake  in  his  hand,  and  was  going 
to   fell   his  co?2frere.     Those   lords    lived  and   felt 


jomethinof  like  our  conductors,  and  the  Count  de 
Foix  was  such  an  one. 

I  beg  pardon  of  the  conductors ;    I  wrong  them 
.grievously.     The  count,  not  having  the  fear  of  the 
blice   before  his  eyes,  came  at  once  not  to  fisti- 
cuffs, but  to  stabs.       His    son  Gaston,   while  on  a 
visit  to  the  king  of  Navarre,  received  a  black  pow- 
der which,   according  to  the    king,  must  reconcile 
forever  the  count  and  his  wife ;  the  youth  took  the 
powder  in  a  little  bag  and  concealed  it  in  his  breast ; 
one  day  his  bastard  brother,  Yvain,  saw  the  bag 
while  playing  with  him,   wanted  to   have   it,   and 
afterward    denounced   him  to   the   count.     At   this 
the  count  ''  began  to  have  suspicions,  for  he  was 
full  of  fancies,"  and  remained  so  until  dinner-time, 
very  thoughtful,  haunted  and  harassed  by  sombre 
imaginings.     Those  stormy  brains,  filled  by  warfare 
and    danger    with    dismal     images,    hastened    to 
tumult  and  tempest.     The  youth  came,  and  began 
to  serve  the  dishes,  tasting  the  meats,  as  was  usual 
when  the  notion  of  poison  was  not  far  from  any 
mind.     The  count  cast  his  eyes  upon  him  and  saw 
the  strings  of  the  bag;  the  sight  fired  his  veins 
and  made   his    blood  boil;  he   seized   the    youth, 
undid  his  pourpoint,  cut  the  strings  of  the  bag,  and 
strewed  some  of  the  powder  over  a  slice  of  bread, 
while  the  poor  youth  turned  pale  with  fear,  and  be- 
gan to  tremble  exceedingly.      Then  he  called  one  of 


56 


THE   VALLE  Y  OE  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II. 


rcHAP.  I. 


DAX,—ORTHEZ, 


57 


I 


his  dogs  to  him,  and  gave  it  him  to  eat.  **  The 
instant  the  dog  had  eaten  a  morsel  his  eyes  rolled 
round  in  his  head,  and  he  died." 

The  count  said  nothing,  but  rose  suddenly,  anc 
seizing  his  knife,  threw  himself  upon  his  son.  B 
the  knio-hts  rushed  in  between  them :  ''For  God's 
sake,  my  lord,  do  not  be  too  hasty,  but  make  fur- 
ther inquiries  before  you  do  any  ill  to  your  son.*' 
The  count  heaped  malediction  and  insult  upon  the 
youth,  then  suddenly  leaped  over  the  table,  knife  in 
hand,  and  fell  upon  him  like  a  wild  beast.  But  the 
knights  and  the  squires  fell  upon  their  knees  before 
him  weeping,  and  saying :  ''  Ah,  ah  !  my  lord,  for 
Heaven's  sake  do  not  kill  Gaston ;  you  have  no  other 
child."  With  great  difficulty  he  restrained  himself, 
doubdess  thinking  that  it  was  prudent  to  see  if  no 
one  else  had  a  part  in  the  matter,  and  put  the  youth 
into  the  tower  at  Orthez. 

He  investigated  then,  but  in  a  singular  fashion, 
as  if  he  were  a  famished  wolf,  wedded  to  a  single 
idea,  bruising  himself  against  it  mechanically  and 
brutally,  through  murder  and  outcry,  killing  blindly 
and  without  reflecting  that  his  killing  is  of  no  use 
to  him.  He  had  many  of  those  who  served  his  son 
arrested,  and  '*  put  to  death  not  less  than  fifteen 
after  they  had  suffered  the  torture ;  and  the  reason 
he  gave  was,  that  it  was  impossible  but  they  must 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  secrets  of  his  son, 


„nd   they  ought  to  have  informed  him  by  saying, 
'  My  lord,  Gaston  wears  constantly  on  his  breast  a 
bag  of  such  and  such  a  form.'      This  they  did  not 
do°and  suffered  a  terrible  death  for  it ;  which  was 
pity,  for  there  were   not   in    all    Gascony  such 
ndsome  or  well-appointed  squires." 
When  this  search  had   proved   useless   he   fell 
back  upon  his  son ;  he  sent  for  the  nobles,  the  pre- 
lates and  all  the  principal  persons  of  his  country, 
related  the  affair  to  them,  and  told  them  that  it  was 
his  intention  to  put  the  youth  to  death.     But  they 
would  not  agree  to  this,  and  said  that  the  country 
had  need  of  an  heir  for  its  better  preservation  and 
defence ;    "  and  would   not   quit  Orthez  until  the 
count  had  assured  them  that  Gaston  should  not  be 
put  to  death,  so  great  was  their  affection  for  him." 

Still  the  youth  remained  in  the  tower  of  Orthez, 
"  where  was  litde  light,"  always  lying  alone,  unwil- 
ling to  eat,  "  cursing  the  hour  that  ever  he  was 
bom  or  begotten,  that  he  should  come  to  such  an 
end."     On   the  tenth    day  the  jailer    saw    all   the 
meats  that  had  been  served  in  a  corner,  and  went 
and  told  it  to  the  count.      The    count  was  again 
enraged,  like   a  beast  of  prey  who   encounters   a 
remnant  of  resistance  after  it  has  once  been  sati- 
ated ;  "  without  saying  a  word,"  he  came  to  the  pri- 
son, holding  by  the  point  a  small  knife  with  which 
he  was  cleaning  his  nails.     Then,  striking  his  fist 


58 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II, 


upon  his  son's  throat,  he  pushed  him  rudely  as  he, 
said:  ''Ha,  traitor,  why  dost  thou  not  eat?"  and 
went  away  without  saying  more.  His  knife  had 
touched  an  artery ;  the  youth,  frightened  and  wan, 
turned  without  a  word  to  the  other  side  of  the  bedi 
shed  his  blood  and  died. 

The  count  was  grieved  beyond  measure  when 
he  heard  of  this,  for  these  violent  natures  felt  only 
with  excess  and  by  contrasts ;  he  had  himself  sha- 
ven and  clothed  in  black.  *'The  body  of  the  youth 
was  borne,  v/ith  tears  and  lamentations,  to  the 
church  of  the  Augustine  Friars  at  Orthez,  where  it 
was  buried."  But  such  murders  left  an  ill-healed 
wound  in  the  heart ;  the  dull  pain  remained,  and 
from  time  to  time  some  dark  shadow  crossed  the 
tumult  of  the  banquets.  This  is  why  the  count 
never  again  felt  such  perfect  joy  as  before. 

It  was  a  sad  time ;  there  is  hardly  another  in 
which  one  would  have  lived  so  unwillingly.  Poetry 
was  imbecile,  chivalry  was  falling  into  brigandage, 
religion  suffered  degradation,  the  State,  disjointed, 
was  crumbling  away ;  the  nation,  ground  down  by 
king,  by  nobles  and  by  Englishmen,  struggled 
for  a  hundred  years  in  a  slough,  between  the 
dying  middle-age  and  the  modern  era  which  was 
not  yet  opened.  And  yet  a  man  like  Ernauton 
must  have  experienced  a  unique  and  splendid  joy 
when,   planted  like  a  Hercules  upon  his  two  feet, 


rf 


ij 


Chap.  I. 


DAX.— ORTHEZ, 


59 


feeling  his  shirt  of  mail  upon  his  breast,  he  pierced 
through  a  hedge  of  pikes,  and  wielded  his  great 


sword  in  the  sunlii^fht* 


IV. 

Nothing  can  be  pleasanter  than  to  journey 
alone  in  an  unknown  country,  without  a  definite 
end,  without  recent  cares  ;  all  little  thoughts  are 
blotted  out.  Do  I  know  w^hether  this  field  be- 
longs to  Peter  or  to  Paul ;  whether  the  engineer  is 
at  war  with  the  prefect,  or  if  there  is  any  dispute 
over  a  projected  canal  or  road  ?  I  am  happy  in- 
deed in  knowing  nothing  about  all  that ;  happier 
still  in  visiting  here  for  the  first  time,  finding 
fresh  sensations,  and  not  being  troubled  by  com- 
parisons and  souvenirs.  I  can  consider  things 
through  general  views,  no  longer  regarding  the 
soil  as  made  the  most  of  by  mankind,  can  forget 
the  useful,  think  only  of  the  beautiful,  and  feel  the 
movement  of  forms  and  the  expression  of  colors. 

The  very  road  seems  beautiful  to  me.  What  an 
air  of  resignation  in  those  old  elms.  They  bud 
and  spread  forth  in  branches,  from  head  to  foot, 
they  have  such  a  desire  for  life,  even  under  this 
dust.      Then  come   lustrous  plane    trees,   tossing 

*  The  passages   from  Froissart  are  from  the  version  of  Thomas  Johnes. 
New  York :  J.  Winchester,  New  World  Press, 


\_ 


6o 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


Book  II. 


Chap.  I. 


DAX.—ORTHEZ, 


6x 


their    beautiful    and  regular  leaves.     White  bind- 
weed, blue  campanulas,  hang  at  the  edge  of  the 
ditches.     Is  it  not  strange  that  these  pretty  crea- 
tures remain  so  solitary,  that  they  should  be  fated 
to  die  to-morrow,  that  they  should  scarcely  have 
looked    upon    us    an    instant;    that    their    beauty 
should  have  flourished  only  for  its  two  seconds  of 
admiration?     They    too    have    their    world,    this 
people    of  high  grasses  bending   over    on    them- 
selves ;  these  lizards  which  wave  the  thicket  of  the 
herbs ;  these  gilded  wasps  that  hum  in  their  chal- 
ices.    This  world  here  is  well  worth  ours,  and    I 
find  them  happy  in  opening  thus,  then  in  closing 
their  pale  eyes  to  the  peaceful  whisper  of  the  wind. 
The  road,   as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  curves 
and  lifts  anew  its  white  girdle  around  the  hills ;  this 
sinuous   movement   is    of  infinite    sweetness;     the 
lono-  riband  ticrhtens  to  their  figure  their  veil  of 
fair   harvests  or   their    robe    of  green    meadows. 
These  slopes  and  roundnesses  are  as  expressive  as 
human    forms  ;  but  how  much  more    varied,   how 
much   stranger   and  richer    in    attitudes?     Those 
there  on  the  horizon,  almost  hid  behind  a  troop  of 
others,  smile  dimly  in  their  timidness,  under  their 
crown  of  vapory  gauze ;  they  form  a  round  on  the 
brink  of  heaven,  a  fleeting  round  that  the  least  dis- 
turbance of  the  air    would  put  out  of  sight,    and 
which  yet  regards  with  tenderness  the  fretted  crea- 


^ 


1 


tures  lost  in  its  bosom.  Others,  their  neighbors, 
rudely  dint  the  soil  with  their  haunches  and  their 
brown  slopes ;  the  human  structure  here  half 
peeps  forth,  then  disappears  under  the  mineral  bar- 
barism ;  here  are  the  children  of  another  age,  ever 
powerful,  severe  still,  unknown  and  antique  races, 
whose  mysterious  history  the  mind  searches  with- 
out willing  it.  Tawny  moors  filled  with  herds 
mount  upon  their  flanks  to  the  summits  ;  splendid 
meadows  sparkle  upon  their  back.  Some  among 
these  plunge  abruptly  away  down  into  depths 
where  they  disgorge  the  streams  that  the)^  accumu- 
late, and  where  is  gathered  all  the  heat  of  the  burning 
vault  which  shines  above  under  the  most  generous 
sun.  It,  meanwhile,  embraces  and  broods  over  the 
country  ;  from  woods,  plains,  hills,  the  great  soul  of 
vegetation  starts  forth  mounting  to  meet  its  rays. 

Here  your  neighbor,  who  is  engaged  in  a  warm 
dispute,  pulls  your  sleeve,  crying :  "  The  gigot  at 
Orthez  doesn't  give  cramps  in  the  stomach,  does 

It,  sir : 

You  start;  then  in  another  moment  you  turn 
your  nose  toward  the  window.  But  the  sensa- 
tion has  disappeared:  the  mutton  of  Dax  has 
blotted  out  everything.  The  meadows  are  so 
many  kilogrammes  of  unmown  hay,  the  trees  are 
so  many  feet  of  timber,  and  the  herds  are  only 
walking  beefsteaks. 


CHAPTER  II. 


PAU, 
I. 

Pau  is  a  pretty  city,  neat,  of  gay  appearance ;  but 
the  highway  is  paved  with  Httle  round  stones,  the 
side-walks  with  small  sharp  pebbles :  so  the  horses 
walk  on  the  heads  of  nails  and  foot-passengers  on 
the  points  of  them.  From  Bordeaux  to  Toulouse 
such  is  the  usage,  such  the  pavement.  At  the  end 
of  five  minutes,  your  feet  tell  you  in  the  most  intel- 
ligible manner  that  you  are  two  hundred  leagues 
away  from  Paris. 

You  meet  wagons  loaded  with  wood,  of  rustic 
simplicity,  the  invention  of  which  goes  back  to  the 
time  of  Vercingetorix,  but  the  only  thing  capable  of 
climbing  and  descending  the  stony  escarpments  of 
the  mountains.  They  are  composed  of  the  trunk 
of  a  tree  placed  across  the  axles  and  sustaining  two 
oblique  hurdles ;  they  are  drawn  by  two  great 
whitish  oxen,  decked  with  a  piece  of  hanging  cloth, 
a  net  of  thread  upon  the  head  and  crowned  with 
ferns,  all  to  shield  them  from  the  gray  flies.  This 
suggests  food  for  thought ;  for  the  skin  of  man  is 
far  more  tender  than  that  of  the  ox,  and  the  gray 
flies  have  sworn  no  peace  with  our  kind.     Before 


Chap  II. 


PAU. 


63 


the  oxen  ordinarily  marches  a  peasant,  of  a  distrust- 
ful and  cunning  air,  armed  with  a  long  switch,  and 
dressed  in  white  woollen  vest  and  brown  breeches  ; 
behind  the  wagon  comes  a  little  bare-footed  boy, 
very  wide  awake  and  very  ragged,  whose  old  vel- 
vet cap  falls  like  the  head  of  a  wrinkled  mushroom, 
and  who  stops  struck  with  admiration  at  the  magni- 
ficent aspect  of  the  diligence. 

Those  are  the  true  countrymen  of  Henry  IV. 
As  to  the  pretty  ladies  in  gauzy  hats,  whose  swell- 
ing and  rustling  robes  graze  the  horns  of  the 
motionless  oxen  as  they  pass,  you  must  not  look  at 
them  ;  they  would  carry  your  imagination  back  to 
the  Boulevard  de  Gand,  and  you  would  have  gone 
two  hundred  leagues  only  to  remain  in  the  same 
place.  I  am  here  on  purpose  to  visit  the  sixteenth 
century  ;  one  makes  a  journey  for  the  sake  of  chang- 
ing, not  place,  but  ideas.  Point  out  to  a  Parisian 
the  gate  by  which  Henry  IV.  entered  Paris ;  he  will 
have  great  difficulty  in  calling  up  the  armor,  the 
halberts  and  the  whole  victorious  and  tumultuous 
procession  that  I'Etoile  describes :  it  is  because  he 
passed  by  there  to-day  on  such  and  such  business, 
that  yesterday  he  met  there  a  friend,  while  last  year 
he  looked  upon  this  gate  in  the  midst  of  a  public 
festival.  All  these  thoughts  hurry  along  with  the 
force  of  habit,  repelling  and  stifling  the  historic 
spectacle  which   was   going  to   lift   itself  into  full 


64 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  II, 


Chap.  II. 


FAU. 


65 


light  and  unroll  itself  before  the  mind.     Set  down 
the  same  man  in  Pau  :    there  he    knows  neither 
hotels,    nor    people,    nor    shops;    his  imagination, 
out  of  its  element,  may  run  at  random  ;  no  known 
object  will  trip   him   up   and   make    him  fall   into 
the  cares  of  interest,  the  passion  of  to-day ;    he  en- 
ters into  the  past  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  walks 
there  as  if   at   home,  at  his  ease.      It  was  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  ;   not  a  visitor  at  the  castle, 
no  one  in  the  courts  nor  on  the  terrace ;  I  should 
not  have  been  too  much  astonished  at  meeting  the 
Bearnais,  ''  that  lusty  gallant,  that  very  devil,"  who 
was  sharp  enough  to  get  for  himself  the  name  of 
**  the  good  king." 

His  chateau  is  very  irregular ;  it  is  only  when  seen 
from  the  valley  that  any  grace  and  harmony  can 
be  found  in  it.  Above  two  rows  of  pointed  roofs 
and  old  houses,  it  stands  out  alone  against  the  sky 
and  gazes  upon  the  valley  in  the  distance  ;  two  bell- 
turrets  project  from  the  front  toward  the  west ;  the 
oblong  body  follows,  and  two  massive  brick  towers 
close  the  line  with  their  esplanades  and  battlements. 
It  is  connected  with  the  city  by  a  narrow  old  bridge, 
by  a  broad  modern  one  with  the  park,  and  the  foot 
of  its  terrace  is  bathed  by  a  dark  but  lovely  stream. 
Near  at  hand,  this  arrangement  disappears ;  a  fifth 
tower  upon  the  north  side  deranges  the  symmetry. 
The  great  egg-shaped  court  is  a  mosaic  of  incon 


>f/ 


gruous  masonry ;  above  the  porch,  a  wall  of  peb- 
bles from  the  Gave,  and  of  red  bricks  crossed  like  a 
tapestry  design  ;  opposite,  fixed  to  the  wall,  a  row 
of  medallions  in  stone ;  upon  the  sides,  doors  of 
every  form  and  age ;  dormer  windows,  windows 
square,  pointed,  embattled,  with  stone  mullions 
garlanded  with  elaborate  reliefs.  This  masquerade 
of  styles  troubles  the  mind,  yet  not  unpleasantly ;  it 
is  unpretending  and  artless ;  each  century  has 
built  according  to  its  own  fancy,  without  concerning 
itself  about  its  neighbor. 

On  the  first  floor  is  shown  a  great  tortoise-shell, 
which  was  the  cradle  of  Henry  IV.  Carved  chests, 
dressing-tables,  tapestries,  clocks  of  that  day,  the 
bed  and  arm-chair  of  Jeanne  d'Albret,  a  complete 
set  of  furniture  in  the  taste  of  the  Renaissance 
striking  and  sombre,  painfully  labored  yet  magnifi- 
cent in  style,  carrying  the  mind  at  once  back 
toward  that  age  of  force  and  effort,  of  boldness  in 
invention,  of  unbridled  pleasures  and  terrible  toil, 
of  sensuality  and  of  heroism.  Jeanne  d'Albret, 
mother  of  Henry  IV.,  crossed  France  in  order  that 
she  might,  according  to  her  promise,  be  confined  in 
this  castle.  "A  princess,"  says  d'Aubigne,  '*  having 
nothing  of  the  woman  about  her  but  the  sex,  a  soul 
entirely  given  to  manly  things,  a  mind  mighty  in 
great  affairs,  a  heart  unconquerable  by  adversity." 
She  sang  an  old  Bearnese  song  when  she  brought 


I 


66 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II. 


him  into  the  world.  They  say  that  the  aged  grand- 
father rubbed  the  Hps  of  the  new-born  child  with  a 
clove  of  garlic,  poured  into  his  mouth  a  few  drops 
of  Juran9on  wine,  and  carried  him  away  in  his 
dressing-gown.  The  child  was  born  in  the  chamber 
which  opens  into  the  tower  of  Mazeres,  on  the 
south-west  corner.  ''  His  grandfather  took  him 
away  from  his  father  and  mother,  and  would  have 
this  child  brought  up  at  his  door,  reproaching  his 
daughter  and  his  son-in-law  with  having  lost  seve- 
ral of  their  children  through  French  luxuries.  And, 
indeed,  he  brought  him  up  in  the  Bearnese  man- 
ner, that  is,  bareheaded  and  barefoot,  often  with  no 
more  nicety  than  is  shown  in  the  bringing  up  of 
children  among  the  peasantry.  This  odd  resolu- 
tion was  successful,  and  formed  a  body  in  which 
heat  and  cold,  unmeasured  toil  and  all  sorts  of 
troubles  were  unable  to  produce  any  change,  thus 
apportioning  his  nourishment  to  his  condition,  as 
though  God  wished  at  that  time  to  prepare  a  sure 
remedy  and  a  firm  heart  of  steel  against  the  iron 
knots  of  our  dire  calamities.*' 

His  mother,  a  warm  and  severe  Calvinist,  when 
*he  was  fifteen  years  old,  led  him  through  the 
Catholic  army  to  la  Rochelle,  and  gave  him  to  her 
followers  as  their  general.  At  sixteen  years  old, 
at  the  combat  of  Arnay-le-Duc,  he  led  the  first 
charge  of  cavalry.     What  an  education  and  what 


Chap.  II. 


PAU. 


67 


men !  Their  descendants  were  just  now  passing 
in  the  streets,  going  to  school  to  compose  Latin 
verses  and  recite  the  pastorals  of  Massillon. 

II. 

Those  old  wars  are  the  most  poetic  in  French 
history ;     they    were    made    for    pleasure    rather 
than    interest.      It    was    a    chase    in    which    ad- 
ventures, dangers,  emotions  were  found,  in  which  ' 
men   lived  in  the  sunlight,  on   horseback,  amidst 
flashes  of  fire,  and  where  the  body,  as  well  as  the 
soul,  had  its  enjoyment  and  its   exercise.     Henry 
carries  it  on  as  briskly  as  a  dance,  with  a  Gascon's 
fire  and  a  soldier's  ardor,  with  abrupt  sallies,  and 
pursuing  his  point  against  the  enemy  as  with  the 
ladies.     This  is  no  spectacle  of  great  masses  of 
well-disciplined  men,  coming  heavily  into  collision 
and  falling  by  thousands  on  the  field,  according  to 
the  rules  of  good  tactics.     The  king  leaves  Pau  or 
Nerac  with  a  litde  troop,  picks  up  the  neighboring 
garrisons  on  his  way,  scales  a  fortress,  intercepts  a 
body  of  arquebusiers  as  they  pass,  extricates  himself 
pistol  in  hand  from  the  midst  of  a  hostile  troop,  and 
returns  to  the  feet  of  Mile,  de  Tignonville.     They 
arrange  their  plan  from  day  to  day ;  nothing  is  done 
unless  unexpectedly  and  by  chance.      Enterprises 
are  strokes  of  fortune.     Here  is  one  which  Sully 


/ 


68 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U.  Book  II. 


Chap.  II. 


PAU, 


69 


had  recounted  by  his  secretary  ;  I  Hke  to  Hsten  to 
old  words  among  old  monuments,  and  to  feel  the 
mutual  fitness  of  objects  and  of  style  : 

"The   king  of  Navarre  formed  the    design  of 
seizing  on  the  city  of  Eause,  which,  by  good  right,  ^ 
was  his,  and  where  he  had  chance  of  fine  fortune ; 
for  deeming  that  the  inhabitants,  who  had  not  been 
willing  to  receive  a  garrison,  should  have  respect 
for  his  person,  who  was  their  lord,  he  determined 
to  march  all  day  long  in  order  to  enter  in  with  few 
people,  so  as  to  create  no  alarm,  and,  indeed,  hav- 
ing taken  only  fifteen  or  sixteen  of  you,  gentlemen, 
who   placed   yourselves    nearest   to    him,    among 
whom  were  you,  with  simple  cuirasses  under  your 
hunting  tunics,  two  swords  and  two  pistols,  he  sur- 
prised the  gate  of  the  city  and  entered  in  before 
they  of  the   guard  were  able   to    take   up    arms. 
But  one  of  these  gave  the  alarm  to  him  who  was 
sentinel  at  the  portal,  and  he  cut  the  cord  in  the 
slide  of  the  portcullis,  so  that  it  fell  immediately 
almost  on  the  croup  of  your  horse  and  that  of  your 
cousin,  M.  de  Bethune  the  elder,  and  hindered  the 
troop  which  was  coming  up  on  the  gallop  from 
entering,  so  that  the  king  and  you  fifteen  or  six- 
teen alone  remained  shut  up  in  this  city,  where  all 
the  people,  being  armed,  fell  upon  you  in  divers 
troops  and  at  divers  times,  while  the  tocsin  rang 
furiously,  and  a  cry  of   'Arm,  arm!'  and  *  Kill, 


Kill!''  resounded  on  all  sides,— seeing  which,  the 
king  of  Navarre,  from  the  first  troop  which  came 
up,  some  fifty  strong,  in  part  well,  in  part  ill  armed, 
he,   I    say,   marching,   pistol   in   hand,   straight   at 
them,  called  out  to  you :   '  Come  now,  my  friends, 
my   comrades;    it    is   here   that   you   must    show 
courage  and  resolution,  for  thereon  depends   our 
safety ;  let  each  one  then  follow  me  and  do  as  I  do, 
and  not  fire  until  the  pistol  touches/     At  the  same 
time,  hearing  three  or  four  cry  out :     '  Fire  at  that 
scarlet  tunic,  at  that  white  plume,  for  it  is  the  king 
of  Navarre,'  he  charged  on  them  so  impetuously 
that,  without  firing   more   than  five  or  six  times, 
they  took  fright  and  withdrew  in  several  troops. 
Others  in  like  manner  came  against  you  three  or 
four  times ;  but  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  they  were 
broken,  they  fired  a  few  times  and  turned  away  until, 
having  rallied  nearly  two  hundred  together,  they 
forced  you  to  gain  a  doorway,  and  two  of  you  went 
up  to  give  a  signal  to  the  rest  of  the  troop  that  the 
king  was  there,  and  that  the  gate  must  be  burst  open, 
as  the  draw-bridge  had  not  been  raised.    Whereupon 
each  one  began  working,  and  then  several  among 
that  populace  who  loved  the  king,  and  others  who 
feared  to  offend   him,    began   raising   a  tumult  in 
his    favor;   finally,    after  a  few  arquebusades  and 
pistol-shots  from  both  sides,  there  arose  such  dis- 
sension   among    them,    some   crying,    *We    must 


70 


THE  VALLE  Y  OE  OSS  A  U, 


Book  IL 


I  < 


yield  ;  *  others,  '  We  must  defend  ourselves  ; '  that 
the  irresolution  afforded  means  and  time  for  open- 
ing the  gates,  and  for  all  the  troops  to  present 
themselves,  at  the  head  of  whom  the  king  placed 
himself,  and  saw  most  of  the  peoples  fleeing  and  the 
consuls  with  their  chaperons  crying:  *  Sire,  we 
are  your  subjects  and  your  peculiar  servants. 
Alas  !  allow  not  the  sacking  of  this  city,  which  is 
yours,  on  account  of  the  madness  of  a  few  worth- 
less fellows,  who  should  be  driven  out.'  He 
placed  himself,  I  said,  at  the  head  to  prevent 
pillage :  thus  there  was  committed  neither  violence, 
nor  disorder,  nor  any  other  punishment,  except 
that  four,  who  had  fired  at  the  white  plume,  were 
hung,  to  the  joy  of  all  the  other  inhabitants,  who 
thought  not  that  they  should  be  quiet  on  such 
good  terms." 

At  Cahors  he  burst  in  the  two  gates  with 
petard  and  axe,  and  fought  five  days  and  five 
nights  in  the  city,  carrying  house  after  house. 
Are  not  these  chivalric  adventures  and  poetry  in 
action  ?  *'  So,  so,  cavaliers,"  cried  the  Catholics  at 
Marmande;  **  a  pistol-shot  for  love  of  the  mis- 
tress ;  for  your  court  is  too  full  of  lovely  ladies 
to  know  any  lack  of  them."  Henry  escaped  like 
a  true  paladin,  and  lost  his  victory  at  Contras  in 
order  to  carry  to  the  beautiful  Corisandre  the  flags 
that  he  had  taken.     To  act,  to  dare,  to  enjoy,  to 


Chap.  II. 


PAU. 


71 


^ 


I 


expend  force  and    trouble    like  a  prodigal,  to  be 
given   up    to   the    present    sensation,  be    forever 
urged    by    passions    forever   lively,    support    and 
search  the  extremes  of  all  contrasts,  that  was   the 
life  of  the   sixteenth  century.     Henry  at  Fontenay 
"■  worked  in  the  trenches  with  pick  and  mattock." 
On    his    return  there  was   nothing    but  feasting. 
*'  We  came  together,"  says   Marguerite,  ''  to  take 
walks  in  company,  either  in  a  lovely  garden  where 
are    long  alleys  of  cypress  and   laurel,  or  in  the 
park   which    I  had  caused  to    be  made,  in  alleys 
three  thousand  paces  long,  which  border  the  river ; 
and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  all  sorts  of 
suitable  pleasures,  a  ball  ordinarily  filling  the  after- 
noon and  the  evening."     The  grave  Sully  **  took  a 
mistress  like  the   rest."      In  visiting  the  restored 
dining-hall,  you  repeople  it  involuntarily  with  the 
sumptuous     costumes     described    by     Brantome : 
ladies  "  clad  in  orange-color  and  gold  lace,  robes  of 
cloth  of    silver,    of  crisped   cloth    of  gold,    stuffs 
perfectly    stiff   with   ornaments    and    embroidery. 
Queen  Marguerite  in  a  robe  of  flesh-colored  Span- 
ish   velvet,    heavily   loaded    with    gold    lace,    so 
decked  out  with  plumes   and  precious    stones  as 
nothing  ever  was  before."      I  said  to  M.  de  Ron- 
sard  :     **  Do  you  not   seem   to  see  this    beautiful 
queen,   in   such    guise,  appearing   as    the    lovely 
Aurora,  when  she  is   going  to  spring  up   before 


i 


72 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U.  Book  II. 


the  day,  with  her  beautiful  pale  face,  bordered 
with  its  ruby  and  carnation  color  ?  "  At  the  ball 
in  the  evening,  she  loved  to  dance  '*  the  pavant 
of  Spain  and  the  Italian  pazzemano.  The  pas- 
sages in  this  were  so, well  danced,  the  steps  so 
judiciously  conducted,  the  rests  so  beautifully 
made,  that  you  knew  not  which  most  to  admire, 
the  beautiful  manner  of  dancing,  or  the  majesty 
of  the  steps,  representing  now  gayety,  now  a  fine 
and  grave  disdain." 

You  may  well  believe  that  the   good  king  was 

not  sparing  of  sport. 

"  Ilfut  de  ses  sujets  le  vainqueur  et  le  pere.^^ 

The  maids  of  honor  of  Marguerite  could  bear 
witness  to  this  ;  hence  intrigues,  quarrels  and  con- 
jugal comedies,  one  of  which  is  very  prettily  and 
very  artlessly  told  by  the  queen  ;  Mile  de  Fosseuse 
was  the  heroine.  ''The  pain  seized  her  one  morn- 
ing, at  the  break  of  day,  while  in  bed  in  the 
chamber  of  the  maids,  and  she  sent  for  my  physi- 
cian and  begged  him  to  go  and  inform  the  king  my 
husband,  which  he  did.  We  were  in  bed  in  the 
same  chamber,  but  in  separate  beds,  according  to 
our  custom.  When  the  physician  gave  him  this  bit 
of  news,  he  was  in  great  trouble,  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  fearful  on  the  one  hand  lest  she 
should  be  discovered,  and  on  the  other  lest  she 
should  want  help,  for  he  loved  her   dearly.     He 


# 


) 


Chap.  II. 


PAU. 


73 


determined,   finally,    to    confess   all  to    me,   and 
to    beg    me    go   to   her    assistance,  for  he   knew 
well  that,  whatever  might  have  passed,  he  should 
always  find  me  ready  to  serve   him  in   anything 
that  could    please    him.  •    He    opens    my   curtain 
and    says    to  me:     -Dearest,    I  have    concealed 
from  you  one  thing  which  I  must  confess  to  you ; 
I  beg  you  to   excuse  me    for   it,   and  not  to   re- 
member all  that  I  have  said  to  you  on  this  sub- 
ject.     But  oblige  me  so  much  as    to  get  up    at 
once,  and  go  to  the  assistance  of  Fosseuse,  who  is 
very  ill ;    I   am    sure    that  you    would   not  wish, 
when  you    see   her    in  that    condition,   to  resent 
what  is  past.     You  know  how  much  I  love  her ;   I 
beg  that  you  will  oblige  me  in  this   matter."     I 
told  him  that  I  honored-  him  too  much  to  be  of- 
fended with  anything  coming  from  him.      That  I 
would  be  off  and  do  as  if  it  were  my  daughter ; 
that  in  the  mean  time  he  should  go  to  the  chase 
and  take  everybody  with  him,  so  that  no  talk  of 

it  should  be  heard. 

*'  I  had  her  promptly  removed' from  the  chamber 
of  the  maids  and  put  into  a  chamber  apart,  with 
my  physician  and  women  to  wait  upon  her,  and 
gave  her  my  best  assistance.  God  willed  that  it 
should  be  only  a  daughter,  which  moreover  was 
dead.  After  the  delivery,  she  was  carried  to  the 
chamber  of  the  maids,  where,  though  all  possible 


74 


THE  VALLEY  OP  OSSAU.  Bcok  IL 


discretion  was  used,  they  could  not  prevent  the 
report  from  spreading  throughout  the  castle.  When 
the    king    my  husband    was  returned    from    the 
chase,  he  went  to  see  her  according  to  his  custom ; 
Vhe  begged  him  that  I  would   come  to   see  her, 
as  I  was  accustomed  to  visit  all  my  maids  when 
they  were  ill,  thinking  to  stop  by  this  means  the 
spread  of    the   report.      The   king  my    husband 
came  into  the  chamber  and  found  that  I  had  gone  to 
bed  again,  for  I  was  tired  with  getting  up  so  early, 
and  with  the  trouble  I  had  had  in  rendering  her  as- 
sistance.   He  begged  that  I  would  get  up  and  go  to 
see  her ;  I  told  him  that  I  had  done  so  when  she 
had  need  of  my  aid,  but  now  she  no  longer  had  oc- 
casion for  it ;  that  if  I  went  there,  I  should  reveal 
rather  than   cloak  the  truth,  and  that  everybody 
would  point  their  finger  at  me.      He  was  seriously 
vexed  with  me,  and  this  was  far  from  pleasant  to 
me,  for  it  seemed  that  I  had  not  deserved  such  a 
recompense  for  what  I  had  done  in  the  morning. 
She  often  put  him  into  similar  mood  toward  me." 

Compassionate  souls,  who  admire  the  com- 
plaisance of  the  queen,  do  not  pity  her  too  much : 
she  punished  the  king,  by  imitating  him,  at  Usson 

and  elsewhere. 

And  yet  Pau  was  a  lesser  Geneva.  Amidst 
these  violences  and  this  voluptuousness,  devotion 
was  warm  ;  they  went  to  sermons  or  to  the  church, 


r 


Chap.  II. 


PAU. 


75 


with  the  same  air  as  to  the  battle-field  or  the  rendez- 
vous.     This  is  because  religion  then  was  not  a  vir- 
tue,  but  a  passion.     In  such  case,  the  neighboring 
passions,  instead  of  extinguishing  it,  only  inflame ; 
the  heart  overflows  on  that  side  as  on  the  others. 
When  the  lazzarone  has  stabbed  his  enemy,  he  finds 
a  second  pleasure,  says  Beyle,  in  prating  about  his 
anger,  alongside  a  wire  grating  in  a  great  box  of 
black  wood.      The  Hindoo  that  gets  excited  and 
howls  at  the  feast  of  Juggernaut,  to  the  hubbub  of 
fifty  thousand  tom-toms,  the  American  Methodist 
who  weeps  and  cries  aloud  his  sins  in  a  revival, 
feels   something  the  same  sort   of  pleasure  as  an 
Italian  enthusiast  at  the  opera.     That  explains  and 
reconciles  the  zeal  and  the  gallantry  of  Marguerite. 
"They  only    allowed  me,"  said   she,   *'to  have 
mass  said  in  a  little  chapel  not  more  than  three  or 
four  paces  long,  which,  narrow  as  it  was,  was  full 
when  there  were  seven  or  eight  of  us  there.     So 
when  they  wanted  to  say  mass,  they  raised  the 
bridge  of  the  casrie,  for  fear  that  the  Catholics  of 
the    country,  who    had   no   exercise    of   their    re- 
ligion, should  hear  of  it ;   for  they  had  an  infinite 
desire  to  assist  at  the  holy  sacrifice,  of  which  they 
had  been  deprived  for  several   years.     And,  urged 
by  this  sacred  desire,  the  inhabitants  of  Pau  found 
means,   at    Whitsuntide,  before    the    bridge    was 
raised,    to   enter    the    castle,   and    slip    into    the 


76 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


Book  II. 


chapel,  where  they  were  not  discovered  until  to- 
ward the  end  of  mass,  when,  half  opening  the 
door  to  let  in  one  of  my  people,  some  Huguenots 
who  were  spying  round  the  door  perceived  them, 
and  went  to  tell  it  to  le  Pin,  secretary  of  the  king 
my  husband,  and  he  sent  there  some  guards  of  the 
king  my  husband,  who,  dragging  them  forth  and 
beating  them  in  my  presence,  carried  them  off  to 
prison,  where  they  remained  a  long  time,  and  paid 
a  heavy  fine." 

The  little  chapel  has  disappeared,  I  believe,  since 
the  castle  and  the  whole  country  were  restored  to 
the  Catholic  worship.  Besides,  this  treatment  arose 
from  humanity :  Saint-Pont,  at  Macon, ''  afforded  the 
ladies,  as  they  went  out  from  the  banquets  that  he 
gave,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  certain  number  of 
prisoners  leap  off  from  the  bridge."  Such  were 
these  men,  extreme  in  everything,  in  fanaticism,  in 
pleasure,  in  violence  ;  never  did  the  fountain  of  de- 
sires flow  fuller  and  deeper ;  never  did  more  vigor- 
ous passions  unfold  themselves  with  more  of  sap 
and  greenness.  Walking  through  these  silent 
halls,  disturbed  from  time  to  time  by  fair  invalids 
or  pale  young  consumptives  who  walk  there,  I  fan- 
cied that  enervation  of  the  inner  nature  came  from 
the  enervation  of  the  bodies.  We  spend  our  time 
within  doors,  taken  up  with  discussions,  reflections 
ind  reading ;    the  gentleness  of  manners  removes 


Chap.  II. 


PAU. 


77 


dangers  from  us,  and  industrial  progress  fatigues. 
They  lived  in  the  open  air,  ever  following  the  chase 
and  in  war.  "  Queen  Catherine  was  very  fond  of  rid- 
ing, up  to  the  age  of  sixty  and  more,  and  of  making 
great  and  active  journeys,  even  after  she  had  often 
fallen,  to  the  great  injury  of  her  body,  for  she  was 
several  times  so  far  hurt  as  to  break  her  leg  and 
wound  her  head."  The  rude  exercises  hardened 
their  nerves  ;  their  warmer  blood,  stirred  by  inces- 
sant peril,  urged  upon  the  brain  impetuous  caprices ; 
they  made  history,  while  we  write  it. 


w 


III. 

The  park  is  a  great  wood  on  a  hill,  embedded 
among  meadows  and  harvests.  You  walk  in 
long  solitary  alleys,  under  colonnades  of  superb 
oaks,  while  to  the  left  the  lofty  stems  of  the  copses 
mount  in  close  ranks  upon  the  back  of  the  hill. 
The  fog  was  not  yet  lifted ;  there  was  no  motion 
in  the  air  ;  not  a  corner  of  blue  sky,  not  a  sound  in 
all  the  country.  The  song  of  a  bird  came  for  an 
instant  from  the  midst  of  the  ash-trees,  then  sadly 
ceased.  Is  that  then  the  sky  of  the  south,  and 
was  it  necessary  to  come  to  the  happy  country  of 
the  Bearnais  to  find  such  melancholy  impressions  ? 
A  little  by-way  brought  us  to  a  bank  of  the  Gave : 
in  a  long  pool  of  water  was  growing  an  army  of 


il 


78 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


Book  II 


Chap.  II. 


FAU, 


reeds  twice  the  height  of  a  man;  their  grayish 
spikes  and  their  trembling  leaves  bent  and  whis- 
pered under  the  wind ;  a  wild  flower  near  by  shed 
a  vanilla  perfume.  We  gazed  on  the  broad 
country,  the  ranges  of  rounded  hills,  the  silent 
plain  under  the  dull  dome  of  the  sky.  Three  hun- 
dred paces  away  the  Gave  rolls  between  marshal- 
led banks,  which  it  has  covered  with  sand ;  in  the 
midst  of  the  waters  may  be  seen  the  moss-grown 
piles  of  a  ruined  bridge.  One  is  at  ease  here, 
and  yet  at  the  bottom  of  the  heart  a  vague  un- 
rest IS  felt ;  the  soul  is  softened  and  loses  itself  in 
melancholy  and  tender  revery.  Suddenly  the  clock 
strikes,  and  one  is  forced  to  go  and  prepare  himself 
to  eat  his  soup  between  two  commercial  travellers. 

IV. 

To-day  the  sun  shines.  On  my  way  to  the 
Place  Nationahy  I  remarked  a  poor,  half-ruin- 
ed church,  which  had  been  turned  into  a  coach- 
house ;  they  have  fastened  upon  it  a  carrier's  sign. 
The  arcades,  in  small  gray  stones,  still  round  them- 
selves with  an  elegant  boldness  ;  beneath  are  stow- 
ed away  carts  and  casks  and  pieces  of  wood  ;  here 
and  there  workmen  were  handling  wheels.  A 
broad  ray  of  ligKt  fell  upon  a  pile  of  straw,  and 
made  the  sombre  corners  seem  yet  darker ;  the  pic- 


\ 


79 


tures   that   one   meets   with    outweigh    those   one 
has  come  to  seek. 

From  the  esplanade  which  is  opposite,  the  whole 
valley  and  the  mountains  beyond  may  be  seen; 
this  first  sight  of  a  southern  sun,  as  it  breaks  from 
the  rainy  mists,  is  admirable  ;  a  sheet  of  white  light 
stretches  from  one  horizon  to  another  without  meet- 
ing a  single  cloud.     The  heart  expands  in  this  im- 
mense space;    the  very  air  is  festal;    the  dazzled 
eyes  close  beneath  the  brightness  which  deluges 
them  and  which  runs  over,  radiated  from  the  burn- 
ing dome  of  heaven.     The   current   of  the   river 
sparkles  like  a  girdle  of  jewels ;  the  chains  of  hills, 
yesterday  veiled  and  damp,   extend  at  their  own 
sweet  will  beneath  the  warming,  penetrating  rays, 
and  mount  range  upon  range  to  spread  out  their 
green  robe  to  the  sun.     In  the   distance,  the  blue 
Pyrenees  look  like  a  bank  of  clouds ;  the  air  that 
bathes  them  shapes  them  into  aerial  forms,  vapory 
phantoms,  the  farthest  of  which  vanish  in  the  ca- 
nescent  horizon — dim  contours,  that  might  be  taken 
for  a  fugitive  sketch  from  the  lightest  of  pencils. 
In   the   midst   of  the  serrate  chain   the  peak  du 
Midi  dOssau    lifts     its     abrupt    cone;    at    this 
distance,  forms   are  softened,  colors    are  blended, 
the    Pyrenees    are    only   the    graceful    bordering 
of  a   smiling    landscape   and   of   the   magnificent 
sky.     There    is    nothing    imposing    about     them 


8o 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


Book  II. 


nor   severe ;    the  beauty  here  is  serene,   and  the 
pleasure  pure. 

V. 

The  statue  of  Henry  IV.,  with  an  inscription  in 
Latin  and  in  patois,  is  on  the  esplanade ;  the 
armor  is  finished  so  perfectly  that  it  might  make  an 
armorer  jealous.  But  why  does  the  king  wear  so 
sad  an  air  ?  His  neck  is  ill  at  ease  on  his  shoul- 
ders ;  his  features  are  small  and  full  of  care ;  he 
has  lost  his  gayety,  his  spirit,  his  confidence  in  his 
fortune,  his  proud  bearing.  His  air  is  neither  that 
of  a  great  nor  a  good  man,  nor  of  a  man  of  intel- 
lect ;  his  face  is  discontented,  and  one  would  say 
that  he  was  bored  with  Pau.  I  am  not  sure  that 
he  was  wrong :  and  yet  the  city  passes  for  agreea- 
ble ;  the  climate  is  very  mild,  and  invalids  who  fear 
the  cold  pass  the  winter  in  it.  Balls  are  given  in 
the  clubs;  the  English  abound,  and  it  is  well 
known  that  in  the  matter  of  cookery,  of  beds  and 
inns,  these  people  are  the  first  reformers  in  the 
universe. 

They  would  have  done  well  in  reforming  the 
vehicles :  the  rickety  little  diligences  of  the 
country  are  drawn  by  gaunt  jades  which  descend 
the  hills  on  a  walk,  and  make  stops  in  the  ascent. 
AH  encouragements  of  the  whip  are  thrown  away 
on   their   backs;    you   could   not  bear   them   any 


Chap.  II. 


PAU, 


8x 


grudge  on  that  account,  so  piteous  is  their  appear- 
ance,  with  their   ridgy  backbones,    hanging  ears, 
and  shrunken  bellies.     The  coachman  rises  on  his 
seat,  pulls  the  reins,   waves  his  arms,   bawls  and 
storms,  clambers  down  and  up  again  ;  his  is  a  rude 
calling,   but  he  has  a  soul   like  his  calling.     His 
passengers  are  of  small  consequence  to  him ;  he 
treats    them    as    useful    packages,    a    necessary 
counterpoise  over  which  he  has  rights.     At   the 
foot  of  a  mountain,  the  machine  got  its  wheel  into  a 
ditch  and  tilted  over;  every 'one  leaped  out  after 
the  manner  of  Panurge's  sheep.     He  went  running 
from  one  to  another  to  get  them  back,  especially 
exhorting  the  people  from  the  imp^riale,  and  point- 
ing out  to  them  the  danger  to  the  vehicle,  which 
was  leaning  back,  and  so  needed  ballast  in  front. 
They  however  remained  cool,  and  went  on  afoot, 
while  he  followed  grumbling  and  abusing  their  self- 
ishness. 


il 


VI. 

The  harvests,  pale  in  the  north,  here  wave  with 
a  reflex  of  reddish  gold.  A  warmer  sun  makes 
the  vigorous  verdure  shine  more  richly  ;  the  stalks 
of  maize  spring  from  the  earth  like  discharges  of 
rockets,  and  their  strong,  wrinkled  leaves  fall  over 
in  plumes  ;  such  burning  rays  are  needed  to  urge  the 
sap  through  those  gross  fibres  and  gild  the  massy 


82 


THE  VALLEY  OE  OSSAU. 


Book  II. 


I 

i 


spike.    Toward  Gan,  the  hills,  over  which  undulates 
the  road,  draw  nearer  together,  and  you  travel  on 
through  litde  green  valleys,  planted  with  ash  and 
alder  in  clusters,  according  to  the  caprices  of  the 
slopes,  and  with  their  feet  bathed  in  living  water : 
a  pellucid  stream  borders  the  road,  with  waters  som- 
bre and  hurried  under  the  cover  of  the  trees,  and 
then,  by  fits  and  starts,  brilliant  and  blue  as  the  sky. 
Four  times  in  the  course  of  a  league  it  encounters  a 
mill,  leaps  and  foams,  then  resumes  its  course,  hur- 
ried and  stealthy ;  during  two  leagues  we  have  its 
company,  half  hid  among  the  trees  that  it  nourishes, 
and  breathing  the  freshness  it  exhales.     In  these 
gorges,  water  is  the  mother  of  all  life  and  the  nurse 
of  all  beauty. 

At  Louvie  the  valley  of  Ossau  opens  up  between 
two  mountains  covered  with  brushwood,  bald  in 
places,  spotted  with  moss  and  heather  from  which 
the  rocks  peep  out  like  bones,  while  the  flanks  start 
forth   in   grayish    embossments   or  bend   in    dark 
crevices.     The  plain  of  the  harvests  and  meadows 
buries  itself  in  the  anfractuosities  as  if  in  creeks  ; 
its   contour  folds  itself  about   each  new   mass;  it 
essays  to  scale  the  lower  ridges,  and  stops,  van- 
quished by  the  barren  rock.  We  go  through  three  or 
four  hamlets  whitened  by  dust,  whose  roofs  shine 
with  a  dull  color  like  tarnished  lead.  Then  the  horizon 
is  shut  off;  Mount  Gourzy,  robed  in  forests,  bars  the 


i 


Chap.  II. 


PAU. 


«: 


«3 


route ;  beyond  and  above,  like  a  second  barrier,  the 
peak  of  the  Ger  lifts  its  bald  head,  silvered  with 
snows.  The  carriage  scales  slowly  an  acclivity 
which  winds  upon  the  flank  of  the  mountain ;  at 
the  turn  of  a  rock  may  be  seen  Eaux  Bonnes  in  the 
shelter  of  a  small  gorge. 


I 


CHAPTER  III. 


JSA  UX   B  ONNES, 


I. 


I  THOUGHT  that  here  I  should  find  the  coun- 
try; a  village  like  a  hundred  others,  with  long 
roofs  of  thatch  or  tiles,  with  crannied  walls  and 
shaky  doors,  and  in  the  courts  a  pell-mell  of  carts 
with  fagots,  and  tools,  and  domestic  animals,  in 
short,  the  whole  picturesque  and  charming  uncon- 
straint  of  country  life.  I  find  a  Parisian  street  and 
the  promenades  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Never  was  country  less  countrified :  you  skirt  a 
row  of  houses  drawn  up  in  line,  like  a  row  of  soldiers 
when  carrying  arms,  all  pierced  regularly  with  regu- 
lar windows,  decked  with  signs  and  posters,  bor- 
dered by  a  side-walk,  and  having  the  disagreeably 
decent  aspect  of  hotels  gar  7iis,    These  uniform  build- 
ings, mathematical  lines,  this  disciplined  and  formal 
architecture    make  a  laughable  contrast  with    the 
green  ridges  that  flank  them.     It  seems  grotesque 
that  a  little  warm  water  should  have  imported  into 
these  mountain  hollows  civilization  and  the  cuisine. 
This  singular  village  tries  every  year  to  extend  it- 
self, and  with  great  difficulty,  so  straitened  and  sti- 


Chap.  III. 


EA  UX  BONNES. 


85 


r 


fled  is  it  in  its  ravine ;  they  break  the  rock,  they 
open  trenches  on  the  declivity,  they  suspend  houses 
over  the  torrent,  they  stick  others,  as  it  were,  to  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  they  pile  up  their  chimneys 
even  to  the  roots  of  the  beech-trees  ;  thus  they  con- 
struct behind  the  principal  street  a  melancholy  lane 
which  dips  down  or  raises  itself  as  it  can,  muddy, 
steep,  half  filled  with  temporary  stalls  and  wooden 
wine-shops,  lodging-places  of  artisans  and  guides  ; 
at  last  it  drops  down  to  the  Gave,  into  a  nook 
decked  out  with  drying  linen,  which  is  washed  in 
the  same  place  with  the  hogs. 

Of  all  places  in  the  world,  Eaux  Bonnes  is  the 
most  unpleasant  on  a  rainy  day,  and  rainy  days  are 
frequent  there ;  the  clouds  are  engulfed  between 
two  walls  of  the  valley  of  Ossau,  and  crawl  slowly 
along  half  way  up  the  height ;  the  summits  disap- 
pear, the  floating  masses  come  together,  accumu- 
late because  the  gorge  has  no  outlet,  and  fall  in  fine 
cold  rain.  The  village  becomes  a  prison  ;  the  fog 
creeps  to  the  earth,  envelopes  the  houses,  extin- 
guishes the  light  already  obscured  by  the  mountain ; 
the  English  might  think  themselves  in  London. 
The  visitors  look  through  the  window-panes  at  the 
jumbled  forms  of  the  trees,  the  water  that  drips 
from  the  leaves,  the  mourning  of  the  shivering  and 
humid  woods ;  they  listen  to  the  gallop  of  belated 
riders,  who  return  with  clinging  and  pendent  skirts, 


f 


86 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


Book  II. 


Chap.  III. 


EA  UX  BONNES. 


87 


like  fine  birds  with  their  plumage  disordered  by 
the   rain;    they  try  whist   in   their   despondency; 
some  go  down  to  the  reading-room  and  ask  for  the 
most  blood-stained   pages  of  Paul  Feval  or  Fre- 
deric Soulie ;  they  can  read  nothing  but  the  gloom- 
iest   dramas;     they    discover    leanings      towards 
suicide  in  themselves,  and  construct  the  theory  of 
assassination.     They  look  at   the   clock   and   be- 
think themselves  that  the  doctor  has  ordered  them 
to  drink  three  times  a  day ;  then  they  button  up 
their   overcoats   with   an    air    of  resignation,  and 
climb  the  long,  stiff  slope  of  the  streaming  road  ; 
the  lines  of  umbrellas  and  soaked  mantles  are  a 
pitiable  spectacle  ;    they  come,  splashing  through 
the  water,   and    seat  themselves    in  the  drinking- 
hall.     Each  one  takes  his  syrup-flask  from  its  num- 
bered place  on  a  sort  of  etagere,  and  the  throng  of 
the  drinkers  form  in  line  about  the  tap.     For  the 
rest,  patience  is  soon  acquired  here  ;  amid  such  idle- 
ness the  mind  goes  to  sleep,  the  fog  puts  an  end  to 
ideas,  and  you  follow  the  crowd  mechanically ;  you 
act  only  at  the  instigation  of  others,  and  you  look 
at  objects  without  receiving  from  them  any  reaction. 
After  the  first  glass,  you  wait  an  hour  before  tak- 
ing another ;  meanwhile  you  march  up  and  down, 
elbowed  by  the  dense  groups,  who  drag  themselves 
laboriously  along  between  the  columns.    Not  a  seat 
to  be  had,  except  two  wooden  benches  where  the 


J 


/ 


..     \ 


i 


ladies  sit,  with  their  feet  resting  upon  the  damp 
stones :  the  economy  of  the  administration  supposes 
that  the  weather  is  always  fine.  Wearied  and 
dejected  faces  pass  before  the  eyes  without  awaking 
any  interest.  For  the  twentieth  time  you  look  over 
the  marble  trinkets,  the  shop  with  razors  and  scis- 
sors, a  map  that  hangs  on  the  wall.  What  is  there 
that  one  is  not  capable  of  on  a  rainy  day,  if  obliged 
to  keep  moving  for  an  hour  between  four  walls, 
amidst  the  buzzing  of  two  hundred  people?  You 
study  the  posters,  contemplate  assiduously  some 
figures  which  pretend  to  represent  the  manners  of 
the  country :  these  are  elegant  and  rosy  shepherds, 
who  lead  to  the  dance  smiling  shepherdesses  rosier 
than  themselves.  You  stretch  your  neck  out  at  the 
door  only  to  see  a  gloomy  passage  where  invalids 
are  soaking  their  feet  in  a  trough  of  warm  water, 
all  in  a  row  like  school-children  on  cleaning  and 
excursion  days.  After  these  distractions  you  return 
to  your  lodging,  and  find  yourselves  tete-a-tete,  in 
close  conversation  with  your  chest  of  drawers  and 
your  light-stand. 

II. 

People  who  have  any  appetite  take  refuge  at  the 
table  ;  they  did  not  count  upon  the  musicians.  First 
we  saw  a  blind  man  come  in,  a  heavy,  thick-hea-ded 
Spaniard,  then  the  violinists  of  the  country,  then  an- 


ss 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU.  Book  EI 


i 


other  blind  man.    They  play  pot-pourris  of  waltzes, 
country  dances,  bits  from  operas,  strung-  one  upon 
another,  galloping  along,  above  the  note  or  below 
it,   with   admirable   fearlessness,    despoiling   every 
repertory  in  their  musical  race.     The  next  day  we 
had  three  Germans,  tall  as  towers,  stiff  as  stones, 
perfectly  phlegmatic,  playing  without  a  gesture  and 
passing  the  plate   without  a  word;  at  least  they 
play  in   time.     On  the  third  day  the  musicians  of 
a  neighboring  village  appeared,  a  violin  and  fla- 
geolet ;  they  executed  their  piece  with  such  energy 
and  discord,  in  tones  so  piercing,  so  long-drawn-out 
and     rending,    that,    by    universal    consent,    they 
were  put  out  doors.     They  began  again  under  the 
windows. 

A  good  appetite  is  a  consolation  for  all  ills ;  so 
much  the  worse  if  you  will,  or  so  much  the  better 
for  humanity.  It  is  necessary  to  bear  up  against 
the  tediousness,  the  rain  and  the  music  of  Eaux 
Bonnes.  The  renewed  blood  then  bears  gayety  to 
the  brain,  and  the  body  persuades  the  soul  that 
everything  is  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  worlds. 
You  will  have  pity  on  those  poor  musicians  as  you 
leave  the  table ;  Voltaire  has  proved  that  an  easy  di- 
gestion induces  compassion,  and  that  a  good 
stomach  gives  a  good  heart.  Between  forty  and 
fifty  years  of  age,  a  man  is  handsome  when 
after    dinner,  he  folds   up  his  napkin  and  begins 


I 


}    t 


,'i\ 


\ 

/ 


Chap.  III. 


EAUX  BONNES, 


8q 


his  indispensable  promenade.  He  walks  with  legs 
apart,  chest  out,  resting  heavily  on  his  stick,  his 
cheeks  colored  by  a  slight  warmth,  humming  be- 
tween his  teeth  some  old  refrain  of  his  youth; 
it  seems  to  him  that  the  universe  is  brought 
nicely  together ;  he  smiles  and  is  bland,  he  is  the 
first  to  reach  you  his  hand.  What  machines  we  are ! 
Yet  why  complain  of  it  1  My  good  neighbor  would 
tell  you  that  you  have  the  key  of  your  mechanism  ; 
turn  the  spring  toward  the  side  of  happiness.  This 
may  be  kitchen  philosophy, — very  well.  He  who 
practised  it  did  not  trouble  himself  about  the  name. 

III. 

On  sunny  days,  we  live  in  the  open  air.  A  sort 
of  yard,  called  the  English  garden,  stretches  between 
the  street  and  the  mountain,  carpeted  with  a  poor 
turf,  withered  and  full  of  holes ;  the  ladies  constitute 
it  their  drawing-room  and  work  there  ;  the  dandies, 
lying  on  several  chairs  at  once,  read  their  journal 
and  proudly  smoke  their  cigar ;  the  litde  girls,  in 
embroidered  pantalons,  chatter  with  coquettish  ges- 
tures and  graceful  litde  ways;  they  are  trying  in 
advance  the  parts  they  will  play  as  lovely  dolls. 
But  for  the  red  cassocks  of  the  litde  jumping  pea- 
sants, the  aspect  is  that  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 
You  leave  this  spot  by  beautiful  shaded  walks  which 


90 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU, 


Book  1L 


Chap.  III. 


EAUX  BONNES. 


9i 


mount  in  zigzags  upon  the  flanks  of  the  two  moun- 
tains, one  above  the  torrent,  the  other  above  the 
city ;  toward  noon,  numbers  of  bathers  may  be  met 
here  lying  upon  the  heather,  nearly  all  with  a  novel 
in  hand.  These  lovers  of  the  country  resemble  the 
banker  who  loved  concerts ;  he  enjoyed  them  be- 
cause then  he  could  calculate  his  dividends.  Pardon 
these  hapless  creatures;  they  are  punished  for 
knowing  how  to  read  and  not  knowing  how  to  look 
about. 

IV. 

Anomalous  beeches  sustain  the  slopes  here ; 
no  description  can  give  an  idea  of  these 
stunted  colossi,  eight  feet  high,  and  round  which 
three  men  could  not  reach.  Beaten  back  by  the 
wind  that  desolates  the  declivity,  their  sap  has 
been  accumulating  for  centuries  in  huge,  stunted, 
twisted  and  interlaced  branches ;  all  embossed  with 
knots  misshapen  and  blackened,  they  stretch  and 
coil  themselves  fantastically,  like  limbs  swollen 
by  disease  and  distended  by  a  supreme  effort. 
Through  the  split  bark  may  be  seen  the  vegetable 
.muscles  enrolHng  themselves  about  the  trunk,  and 
crushing  each  other  like  the  limbs  of  wrestlers. 
These  squat  torsos,  half  overthrown,  almost  hori- 
zontal, lean  toward  the  plain  ;  but  their  feet  bury 
themselves  among  the    rocks  with  such  ties,  that 


f 


r 


¥• 


sooner  than  break  that  forest  of  roots,  one  might 
tear  out  a  side  of  the  mountain.     Now  and  then  a 
trunk,  rotted    by  water,    breaks   open,    hideously 
eventerated ;  the  edges  of  the  wound  spread  farther 
apart  with  every  year ;  they  wear  no  longer  the 
shape  of  trees,   and  yet  they  live,  and  cannot  be 
conquered  by  winter,  by  their  slope,  nor  by  time, 
but  boldly  put  forth  into  their  native  air  their  whit- 
ish shoots.     If,  under  the  shades  of  evening,  you 
pass  by  the  tortured  tops  and  yawning  trunks  of 
these  old  inhabitants  of  the  mountains,  when  the 
wind  is  beating  the  branches,  you  seem  to  hear 
a  hollow  plaint,  extorted  by  a  century's  toil ;  these 
strange  forms  recall  the  fantastic  creatures  of  the 
old   Scandinavian  mythology.     You  think   on  the 
giants  imprisoned  by  fate,  between  walls  that  con- 
tracted day  by  day,  and  bent  them  down  and  les- 
sened them,  and  then  returned  them  to  the  light, 
after  a  thousand   years   of   torture,   furious,   mis- 
shapen and  dwarfed. 

V. 

Toward  four  o'clock  the  cavalcades  return; 
the  small  horses  of  the  country  are  gentle, 
and  gallop  without  too  much  effort ;  far  away  in 
the  sunlight  gleam  the  white  and  luminous  veils 
of  the  ladies;  nothing  is  more  graceful  than  a 
pretty  woman  on  horseback,  when  she  is  neither 


9^ 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II. 


Chap.  III. 


EAUX  BONNES. 


93 


imprisoned  in  a  black  riding-habit,  nor  topped  with 
a  chimney-pot  hat.  Nobody  here  wears  this 
funereal,  poverty-stricken  English  costume;  in  a 
gay  country  people  assume  gay  colors  ;  the  sun  is  a 
good  counsellor.  It  is  forbidden  to  return  at  a  gal- 
lop, which  is  reason  enough  why  everybody  should 
return  at  that  gait.  Ah,  the  great  art  of  imitating 
the  coming  in  of  the  cattle  !  They  bend  in  the 
saddle,  the  highway  resounds,  the  windows  quiver, 
they  sweep  proudly  before  the  saunterers  who  stop 
to  gaze;  it  is  a  triumph;  the  administration  of 
Eaux  Bonnes  does  not  know  the  human  heart,  es- 
pecially the  heart  of  woman. 

In   the  evening,  everybody   meets    on    a    level 
promenade  ;  it  is  a  flat   road  half  a  league  long, 
cut  in  the  mountain  of  Gourzy.      The   remainder 
of  the  country   is  nothing  but  steeps    and  preci- 
pices ;  any  one  who  for  eight  days  has  known  the 
fatigue  of  climbing  bent  double,  of  stumbling  down 
hill,  of  studying  the  laws  of  equilibrium  while  flat 
on  his  back,  will  find  it  agreeable  to  walk  on  level 
ground,  and  to  move  his  feet  freely  without  think- 
ing of  his  head  ;  it  gives  a  perfectly  new  sensation 
of  security  and  ease.      The  road   winds  along    a 
wooded  hill-side,  furrowed  by  winter  torrents  into 
whitish  ravines  ;  a  few  wasted  springs  slip  away  un 
der   the  stones  in  their  stream  beds,   and    cover 
them   with  climbing  plants  ;  you  walk  under   the 


1 

) 


massive  beeches,  then  skirt  along  an  inclined  plane, 
peopled  with  ferns,  where  feed  the  tinkling  herds ; 
the  heat  has  abated,  the  air  is  soft,  a  perfume  of 
healthy  and  wild  verdure  reaches  you  on  the  light- 
est breeze ;  fair  white-robed  promenaders  pass  by  in 
the  twilight  with  ruffles  of  lace  and  floating  muslins 
that  rise  and  flutter  like  the  wings  of  a  bird. 
Every  day  we  went  to  a  seat  upon  a  rock  at  the 
end  of  this  road ;  from  there,  through  the  whole 
valley  of  Ossau,  you  follow  the  torrent  grown  into  a 
river  ;  the  rich  valley,  a  mosaic  of  yellow  harvests 
and  green  fields,  broadly  opens  out  to  the  confines 
of  the  landscape,  and  allows  the  eye  to  lose  itself 
in  the  dim  distance  of  Beam.  From  each  side 
three  mountains  strike  out  their  feet  towards  the 
river,  and  cause  the  outline  of  the  plain  to  rise  and 
fall  in  waves  ;  the  furthest  slope  down  like  pyra- 
mids, and  their  pale  blue  declivities  stand  out  upon 
the  rosy  zone  of  the  dim  sky.  In  the  depth  of 
the  gorges  it  is  already  dark ;  but  turn  around  and 
you  may  see  the  summit  of  the  Ger,  gleaming  with 
a  soft  carnation  cherishing  the  last  smile  of  the  sun. 

VI. 

On  Sunday  a  procession  of  fine  toilets  goes  up 
toward  the  church.  This  church  is  a  round 
box,  of  stone  and  plaster,  built  for  fifty  persons  but 


94 


THE   VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U, 


Book  IL 


Chap.  III. 


EA  UX  BONNES. 


95 


made  to  hold  two  hundred.  Every  half-hour  the 
tide  of  the  faithful  ebbs  and  flows.  Invalid  priests 
abound  and  say  as  many  masses  as  may  be  wanted : 
everything  at  Eaux  Bonnes  suffers  for  want  of 
room;  they  form  in  line  for  prayers  as  for 
drinking,  and  are  as  crowded  at  the  chapel  as  at 

the  tap. 

Occasionally  a  purveyor  of  public  pleasures  un- 
dertakes the  duty  of  enlivening  the  afternoon ;  an 
eloquent  poster  announces  the  jeu  die  canard. 
They  fasten  a  perch  to  a  tree,  a  cord  to  the  perch, 
and  a  duck  to  the  cord ;  the  most  serious-minded 
people  follow  the  preparation  with  marked  interest. 
I  have  seen  men  who  yawn  at  the  opera  form 
a  ring,  under  a  hot  sun,  for  a  whole  hour  in  order 
to  witness  the  decapitation  of  the  poor  hanging 
creature.  If  you  are  generous-minded  and  greedy 
of  sensations  in  addition,  you  give  two  sous  to  a 
small  boy;  in  consideration  of  which  he  has  his 
eyes  bandaged,  is  made  to  turn  round  and  round, 
has  an  old  sabre  given  to  him,  and  is  pushed 
forward,  in  the  midst  of  the  laughter  and  outcry 
of  the  spectators.  **  Right !  left !  halloo  !  strike  ! 
forward ! "  he  knows  not  which  to  heed,  and  cuts 
away  into  the  air.  If  by  rare  chance  he  hits  the 
creature,  if  by  rarer  chance  he  strikes  the  neck,  or 
if,  indeed,  he  takes  off  the  head  by  miracle,  he 
carries  off  the  duck  to  have  it  cooked,  and  eat  it. 


K 


I  • 


s 


The  public  is  not  exacting  in  matter  of  amusement. 
If  it  were  announced  that  a  mouse  was  to  drown 
itself  in  a  pool,  they  would  run  as  if  to  a  fire. 

*' Why  not?  ''  said  my  neighbor,  an  odd,  abrupt 
sort  of  man :      *'  This    is  a  tragedy  and    a   per- 
fectly regular  one ;  see  if  it  has  not  all  the  classic 
parts.     First,  the    exposition ;   the    instruments  of 
torture  that  are  displayed,  the  crowd  which  comes 
together,  the  distance  that  is  marked,  the  animal 
that  is  fastened  up.     It  is  a  protasis  of  the  complex 
order,  as  M.  Lysidas  used  to  say.     Secondly,  the 
action ;  every  time  that  a  small  boy  starts,  you  are 
in  suspense,  you  rise  on  tip-toe,  your  heart  leaps, 
you  are  as  interested  in  the  pendent  animal  as  in  a 
fellow-creature.       Do  you   say  that   the   action  is 
always  the  same  ?     Simplicity  is  the  characteristic 
of  great  works,  and  this  one  is  after  the  Indian 
style.     Thirdly,    the   catastrophe;    if  ever   it   was 
bloody  it  is  so  here.     As  to  the  passions,  they  are 
those  demanded  by  Aristode,  terror  and  pity.     See 
how  shiveringly  the  poor  creature  lifts  its   head, 
when  it  feels  the  current  of  air  from  the  sword ! 
With  what  a  lamentable  and  resigned  look  it  av/aits 
the  stroke  !     The  chorus  of  spectators  takes  part  in 
the  action,  praises  or  blames,  just  as  in  the  antique 
tragedy.       In    short,  the  public  is   right  in  being 
amused,  and  pleasure  is  never  wrong." 

**  You  talk  like  la  Harpe ;  this  duck  would  ac- 


96 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSS  A  V. 


Book  II. 


I 


cept  his  lot  in  patience,  if  he  could  hear  you.     And 
the  ball,  what  do  you  say  of  that  ?  '* 

**  It  is  worth  as  much  as  the  one  at  the  Hotel  de 
France  with  fine  people  ;  our  dancing  is  nothing 
but  walking,  a  pretext  for  conversation.  Look 
how  the  servants  and  the  guides  dance ;  such  cuts 
and  pigeon  wings !  they  go  into  it  from  pure  fun, 
with  all  their  heart,  they  feel  the  pleasure  of  mo- 
tion, the  impulse  of  their  muscles ;  this  is  the  true 
dance  invented  by  joy  and  the  need  of  physical  ac- 
tivity. These  fellows  fall  to  and  handle  each  other 
like  timbers.  That  great  girl  there  is  servant  at 
my  hotel ;  say,  does  not  that  tall  figure,  that  serious 
air,  that  proud  attitude,  recall  the  statues  of  antiqui- 
ty ?  Force  and  health  are  always  the  first  of  beau- 
ties. Do  you  think  that  the  languid  graces,  the 
conventional  smiles  of  our  quadrilles  would  bring 
together  all  this  crowd?  We  get  further  away 
from  Nature  with  every  day ;  our  life  is  all  in  the 
brain,  and  we  spend  our  time  in  composing  and  lis- 
tening to  set  phrases.  See  how  I  am  uttering  them 
now ;  to-morrow,  I  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  buy  a 
stout  stick,  put  on  gaiters  and  tramp  over  the  coun- 
try. You  do  the  same  ;  let  each  go  his  own  way, 
and  try  not  to  come  together." 


\ 


i 


I 


CHAPTER   IV. 

LANDSCAPES. 

I. 

I  HAVE  determined  to  find  some  pleasure  in  my 
walks ;    have    come   out   alone   by   the  first  path 
that  offered  itself,  and  walk  straight  on  as  chance 
may  lead.     Provided  you  have  noted  two  or  three 
prominent  points,  you  are  sure  of  finding  the  way 
back.     You  can  now  enjoy  the  unexpected,   and 
discover  the  country.     To  know  where   you    are 
going  and  by  what  way  is  certain  boredom ;  the 
imagination  deflowers  the  landscape  in  advance.     It 
works  and  builds  according  to  its  own  pleasure  ; 
then  when  you  reach  your  goal  all  must  be  over- 
turned;   that   spoils    your   disposition;    the    mind 
keeps  its  bent,  and  the  beauty  it  has  fancied  pre- 
judices that  which  it  sees ;  it  fails  to  understand 
this,  because  it  is  already  taken  up  with  another. 
I  suffered  a  most  grievous  disenchantment  when  I 
saw  the  sea  for  the  first  time :    it  was  a  morning 
in   autumn ;  flecks  of  purplish  cloud  dappled  the 
sky  ;  a  gende  breeze  covered  the  sea  with    little 
uniform  waves.     I  seemed  to  see  one  of  those  long 
stretches  of  beet-root  that  are  found  in  the  envi- 
rons of  Paris,  intersected  by  patches  of  green  cab- 
5 


98 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU.  Book  11. 


bages  and  bands  of  russet  barley.  The  distant 
sails  looked  like  the  wings  of  homeward-bound 
pigeons.  The  view  seemed  to  me  confined;  the 
artists,  in  their  pictures,  had  represented  the  sea  as 
greater.  It  was  three  days  before  I  could  get  back 
the  sensation  of  immensity. 

II. 

The   course   of   the  Valentin   is  nothing  but  a 
lono-  fall  between  multitudes  of  rocks.     All  along 
the  pro77ienade    Ey^tard,   for  half  a  league,    you 
may  hear  it  rumbling  under    your   feet.     At   the 
bridge  of  Discoo,  its  standing-ground  fails  it  alto- 
gether ;  it  falls  into  an  amphitheatre,  from  shelf  to 
shelf,  in  jets  that  cross  each  other  and  mingle  their 
flakes  of  foam  ;  then  under  an  arcade  of  rocks  and 
stones,  it  eddies  in  deep  basins,  whose  edges  it  has 
polished,  and  where   the   grayish    emerald    of  its 
waters  diffuses  a  soft  and  peaceful  reflection.     Sud- 
denly it  makes  a  leap  of  thirty  feet  in  three  dark 
masses,  and  rolls  in  silver  spray  down  a  funnel  of 
verdure.     A   fine   dew   gushes   over  the  turf  and 
gives  life  to  it,  and  its  rolling  pearls  sparkle  as  they 
glide  along  the  leaves.     Our  northern  fields  afford 
no  notion  of  such  vividness ;    this  unceasing  cool- 
ness with  this  fiery  sun  is  needed  in  order  to  paint 
the  vegetable  robe  with  such   a  magnificent  hue. 


i 


LANDSCAPES. 


99 


Chap.  IV.  ^ 

I  saw  a  great,  wooded  mountain-side  stretch  slop- 
ing away  before  me ;  the  noonday  sun  beat  down 
upon  it ;  the  mass  of  white  rays  pierced  through 
the  vault  of  the  trees  ;  the  leaves  glowed  in  splen- 
dor, either  transparent  or  radiated.     Over  all  this 
lighted  slope  no  shadow  could  be  distinguished  ;   a 
warm,  luminous  evaporation  covered  all,  like  the 
white  veil  of  a  woman.     I  have  often  since  seen 
this  strange  garb  of  the  mountains,  especially  to- 
wards  evening ;    the  bluish  atmosphere  enclosed 
in  the  gorges  becomes  visible ;  it  grows  thick,  it 
imprisons  the  light  and  makes  it  palpable.     The 
eye  delights  in  penetrating  into  the  fair  network  of 
gold  that  envelopes   the   ridges,    sensitive  to  the 
softness  and  depth  of  it ;  the  salient  edges  lose 
their  hardness,  the  harsh  contours   are  softened ; 
it  is  heaven,    descending  and  lending    its  veil  to 
cover  the  nakedness  of  the  savage  daughters  of  the 
earth.     Pardon   me   these  metaphors;    I   appear,) 
perhaps,  to  be  studying  turns  of  expression,  and^ 
yet  I  am  only  recounting  my  sensations. 

From  this  place  a  meadow-path  leads  to  the 
gorge  of  the  Serpent :  this  is  a  gigantic  notch  in 
the  perpendicular  mountain.  The  brook  that  runs 
through  it  crawls  along  overborne  by  heaped-up 
blocks  ;  its  bed  is  nothing  but  a  ruin.  You  ascend 
along  a  crumbling  pathway,  clinging  to  the  stems 
of  box  and  to  the  edges  of  rocks ;  frightened  liz- 


II 


lOO 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU.  Book  1 1. 


ards  start  off  like  an  arrow,  and  cower  in  the  clefts 
of  slaty  slabs.  A  leaden  sun  inflames  the  bluish 
rocks ;  the  reflected  rays  make  the  air  like  a  fur- 
nace. In  this  parched  chaos  the  only  life  is  that 
of  the  water,  which  glides,  murmuring,  beneath  the 
stones.  At  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  the  mountain 
abruptly  lifts  its  vertical  wall  to  the  height  of  two 
hundred  feet;  the  water  drops  in  long  white 
threads  along  this  polished  wall,  and  turns  its  red- 
dish tint  to  brown ;  during  the  whole  fall  it  does 
not  quit  the  cliff,  but  clings  to  it  like  silvery  tres- 
ses, or  a  pendent  garland  of  convolvulus.  A  fine 
broad  basin  stays  it  for  an  instant  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  and  then  discharges  it  in  a  streamlet  into 

the  bog. 

These  mountain  streams  are  unlike  those  of  the 
plains  ;  nothing  sullies  them  ;  they  never  have  any 
other  bed  than  sand  or  naked  stone.  However 
deep  they  may  be,  you  may  count  their  blue  peb- 
bles ;  they  are  transparent  as  the  air.  Rivers  have 
no  other  diversity  than  that  of  their  banks ;  their 
regular  course,  their  mass  always  gives  the  same 
sensation ;  the  Gave,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  for- 
ever-changing spectacle;  the  human  face  has  not 
more  marked,  more  diverse  expressions.  When 
the  water,  green  and  profound,  sleeps  beneath  the 
rocks,  its  emerald  eyes  wear  the  treacherous  look 
of  a  naiad  who  would  charm  the  passer-by  only  to 


vi 


1 


\ 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


lol 


drown  him ;    then,  wanton  that  it  is,  leaps  blindly 
between    the    rocks,   turns    its    bed  topsy-turvy, 
rises  aloft  in  a  tempest  of  foam,  dashes  itself  im- 
potently  and  furiously  into  spray  against  the  bowl- 
der that  has  vanquished  it.     Three  steps  further 
on,  it  subsides  and  goes  frisking  capriciously  along- 
side  the  bank  in  changing  eddies,   braided   with 
bands  of  light   and   shade,   twisting  voluptuously 
like  an  adder.     When  the  rock  of  its  bed  is  broad 
and  smooth,  it  spreads  out,  veined  with  rose  and 
azure,  smilingly  offering  its  level  glass  to  the  whole 
mass  of  the  sunlight.     Over  the  bending  plants,  it 
threads  its  silent  way  in  lines  straight  and  tense  as 
in  a  bundle  of  rushes,  and  with  the  spring  and 
swiftness  of  a  flying  trout.     When  it  falls  opposite 
the  sun,  the  hues   of  the  rainbow  may  be   seen 
trembling  in  its  crystal  threads,  vanishing,  reap- 
pearing, an  aerial  work,  a  sylph  of  light,  alongside 
which  a  bee's  wing  would  seem  coarse,  and  which 
fairy  fingers  would  in  vain  strive  to  equal.     Seen 
in  the  distance,  the  whole  Gave  is  only  a  storm  of 
silvered  falls,  intersected  by  splendid  blue  expanses. 
Fiery  and  joyful  youth,  useless  and  full  of  poetry ; 
to-morrow  that  troubled  wave  will  receive  the  filth 
of  cities,  and  quays  of  stone  will  imprison  its  course 
by  way  of  regulation. 


I02 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U. 


Book  IL 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


103 


III. 

At  the  bottom  of  an  ice-cold  gorge  rolls  the 
cascade  of  Larresecq.  It  does  not  deserve  its 
renown :  it  is  a  sort  of  dilapidated  stairway  with  a 
dirty  stream,  lost  among  stones  and  shifting  earth, 
awkwardly  scrambling  down  it;  but,  in  getting 
there,  you  pass  by  a  profound  steep-edged  hollow, 
where  the  torrent  rolls  along  swallowed  up  in  the 
caverns  it  has  scooped  out,  obstructed  by  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  that  it  uproots.  Overhead,  lordly 
oaks  meet  in  arcades ;  the  shrubs  steep  their  roots 
far  below  in  the  turbulent  stream.  No  sunlight 
penetrates  into  this  dark  ravine  ;  the  Gave  pierces 
its  way  through,  unseen  and  icy.  At  the  outlet 
where  it  streams  forth,  you  hear  its  hoarse  outcry ; 
it  is  struggling  among  the  rocks  that  choke  it :  one 
might  fancy  it  a  bull  stricken  by  the  pangs  of  death. 

This  valley  is  solitary  and  out  of  the  world  ;  it  is 
without  culture ;  no  tourists,  not  even  herdsmen 
are  to  be  found ;  three  or  four  cows,  perhaps,  are 
there,  busily  cropping  the  herbage.  Other  gorges 
at  the  sides  of  the  road  and  in  the  mountain  of 
Gourzy  are  still  wilder.  There  the  faint  trace  of  an 
ancient  pathway  may  with  difficulty  be  made  out. 
Can  anything  be  sweeter  than  the  certainty  of  be- 
ing alone  ?     In  any  widely  known  spot,  you  are  in 


constant  dread  of  an  incursion  of  tourists ;  the  hal- 
looing of  guides,  the  loud-voiced  admiration,  the 
bustle,  whether  of  fastening  horses,  or  of  unpacking 
provisions,  or  of  airing  opinions,  all  disturb  the 
budding  sensation ;  civilization  recovers  its  hold 
upon  you.  But  here,  what  security  and  what  si- 
lence !  nothing  that  recalls  man ;  the  landscape  is 
just  what  it  has  been  these  six  thousand  years :  the 
grass  grows  useless  and  free  as  on  the  first  day ; 
no  birds  among  the  branches ;  only  now  and  then 
may  be  heard  the  far-off  cry  of  a  soaring  hawk. 
Here  and  there  the  face  of  a  huge,  projecting  rock 
patches  with  a  dark  shade  the  uniform  plane  of  the 
trees :  it  is  a  virgin  wilderness  in  its  severe  beauty. 
The  soul  fancies  that  it  recognizes  unknown  friends 
of  long  ago ;  the  forms  and  colors  are  in  secret 
harmony  with  it ;  when  it  finds  these  pure,  and  that 
it  enjoys  them  unmixed  with  outside  thought,  it 
feels  that  it  is  entering  into  its  inmost  and  calmest 
depth — a  sensation  so  simple,  after  the  tumult  of 
our  ordinary  thoughts,  is  like  the  gentle  murmur 
of  an  iEolian  harp  after  the  hubbub  of  a  ball. 

IV. 

Going  down  the  Valentin,  on  the  slope  of  the 
Montague  Vertey  I  found  landscapes  less  aus- 
tere.     You    reach    the    right    bank  of  the  Gave 


I04 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U. 


Book  II, 


d'Ossau.  A  pretty  streamlet  slips  down  the 
mountain,  encased  between  two  walls  of  rounded 
stones  all  purple  with  poppies  and  wild  mallows. 
Its  fall  has  been  turned  to  account  in  driving  rows 
of  saws  incessantly  back  and  forth  over  blocks  of 
marble.  A  tall,  bare-footed  girl,  in  rags,  ladles 
up  sand  and  water  for  wetting  the  machine ;  by  the 
aid  of  the  sand  the  iron  blade  eats  away  the  block. 
A  foot-path  follows  the  river  bank,  lined  with 
houses,  huge  oaks  and  fields  of  Indian  corn  ;  on 
the  other  side  is  an  arid  reach  of  pebbly  shore, 
where  children  are  paddling  near  some  hogs 
asleep  in  the  sand ;  on  the  transparent  wave,  flocks 
of  ducks  rock  with  the  undulations  of  the  current : 
it  is  the  country  and  culture  after  solitude  and  the 
desert.  The  pathway  winds  through  a  plantation 
of  osiers  and  willows ;  the  long,  waving  stalks 
that  love  the  rivers,  the  pale  pendent  foliage,  are 
infinitely  graceful  to  eyes  accustomed  to  the  in- 
tense green  of  the  mountains.  On  the  right  may 
be  seen  the  narrow  rocky  ways  that  lead  to  the 
hamlets  scattered  over  the  slopes.  The  houses 
there  lean  their  backs  against  the  mountain, 
shelved  one  above  another,  so  as  to  look  down 
upon  the  valley.  At  noon  the  people  are  all 
absent.  Every  door  is  closed ;  three  or  four  old 
women,  who  alone  are  left  in  the  village,  are 
spreading  grain  upon  the  level  rock  which  forms 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


loS 


r 


the  street  or  esplanade.  What  more  singular  than 
this  long,  natural  flag-stone,  carpeted  with  gilded 
heads  of  grain.  The  dark  and  narrow  church 
ordinarily  rises  from  a  terraced  yard,  enclosed  by  a 
low  wall ;  the  bell-tower  is  white  and  square,  with 
a  slated  spire.  Under  the  porch  may  be  read  a 
few  epitaphs  carved  in  the  stone;  these,  for  the 
most  part,  are  the  names  of  invalids  who  have  died 
at  Eaux-Bonnes ;  I  remarked  those  of  two  broth- 
ers. To  die  so  far  from  home  and  alone !  It  is 
touching  to  read  these  words  of  sympathy  graven 
upon  a  tomb  ;  this  sunlight  is  so  sweet !  the  val- 
ley so  beautiful !  you  seem  to  breathe  health  in 
the  air ;  you  want  to  live ;  one  wishes,  as  the  old 
poet  says,  *'  Se  rejouir  longtemps  de  sa  force  et  de 
sa  jeunesse."  The  love  of  life  is  imparted  with  the 
love  of  light.  How  often,  beneath  the  gloomy 
northern  sky,  do  we  form  a  similar  desire  ? 

At  the  turn  of  the  mountain  is  the  entrance 
into  an  oak  wood  that  rises  on  one  of  the  de- 
clivities. These  lofty,  roomy  forests  give  to  the 
south  shade  without  coolness.  High  up,  among 
the  trunks,  shines  a  patch  of  blue  sky ;  light  and 
shade  dapple  the  gray  moss  like  a  silken  design 
upon  a  velvet  ground.  A  heavy,  warm  air,  loaded 
with  vegetable  emanations,  rises  to  the  face ;  it  fills 
the  chest  and  affects   the    head    like  wine.     The 

monotonous  sound  of  the  cricket  and  the  grass- 
6* 


io6 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  II. 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


107 


hopper  comes  from  wheat-land  and  meadow,  from 
mountain  and  from  plain;  you  feel  that  living 
myriads  are  at  work  among  the  heather  and  under 
the  thatch  ;  and  in  the  veins,  where  ferments  the 
blood,  courses  a  vague  sensation  of  comfort,  the 
uncertain  state  between  sleeping  and  dreaming, 
which  steeps  the  soul  in  animal  life  and  stifles 
thought  under  the  dull  impressions  of  the  senses. 
You  stretch  yourself  out,  and  are  content  with 
merely  living ;  you  feel  not  the  passage  of  the 
hours,  but  are  happy  in  the  present  moment,  with- 
out a  thought  for  past  or  future  ;  you  gaze  upon 
the  slender  sprigs  of  moss,  the  grayish  spikes  of 
the  grasses,  the  long  ribands  of  the  shining  herbs ; 
you  follow  the  course  of  an  insect  striving  to  get 
over  a  thicket  of  turf,  and  clambering  up  and  down 
in  the  labyrinth  of  its  stalks.  Why  not  confess 
that  you  have  become  a  child  again  and  are 
amused  with  the  least  of  sights?  What  is  the 
country  but  a  means  of  returning  to  our  earliest 
youth,  of  finding  again  that  faculty  of  happiness, 
that  state  of  deep  attention,  that  indifference  to 
everything  but  pleasure  and  the  present  sensation, 
that  facile  joy  which  is  a  brimming  spring  ready 
to  overflow  at  the  least  impulse  ?  I  passed  an  hour 
beside  a  squadron  of  ants  who  were  dragging  the 
body  of  a  big  fly  across  a  stone.  They  were  bent 
upon   the   dismemberment  of  the   vanquished;  at 


v:i 


each  leg  a  little  workwoman,  in  a  black  bodice, 
pulled  and  worked  with  all  her  might ;  the  rest  held 
the  body  in  place.  I  never  saw  efforts  more  fear- 
ful ;  at  times  their  prey  rolled  off  the  stone ;  then 
they  had  to  begin  over  again.  At  last,  fatigued 
by  the  toils  of  war,  and  wanting  power  to  cut 
up  and  carry  off  the  prey,  they  resigned  themselves 
to  eating  it  on  the  spot. 

V. 

The  view  from  Mount  Gourzy  is  much  ad- 
mired; the  traveller  is  informed  that  he  will 
see  the  whole  plain  of  Beam  as  far  as  Pau.  I 
am  obliged  to  take  the  word  of  the  guide-book 
for  it ;  I  found  clouds  at  the  summit  and  saw  noth- 
ing but  the  fog.  At  the  end  of  the  forest  that 
covers  the  first  slope  lay  some  enormous  trees, 
half  rotten,  and  already  whitened  with  moss. 
Some  mummies  of  pine  trees  were  left  standing ; 
but  their  pyramids  of  branches  showed  a  shattered 
side.  Old  oaks  split  open  as  high  up  as  a  man's 
head,  crowned  their  wound  with  mushrooms  and 
red  strawberries.  From  the  manner  in  which  the 
crround  is  strewn  it  might  be  called  a  battle-field 
laid  waste  by  bullets ;  it  is  the  herdsmen  who,  for 
mere  amusement,  set  fire  to  the  trees. 

My  neighbor,  the  tourist,  tol  J  me  next  day  that 


io8 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSSA  U, 


Book  II. 


I  had  not  lost  much,  and  gave  me  a  dissertation 
against  the  views  from  mountain-tops.  He  is  a 
resolute  traveller,  a  great  lover  of  painting,  very  odd, 
however,  and  accustomed  to  believing  nothing  but 
himself,  enthusiastic  reasoner,  violent  in  his  opinions 
and  fruitful  in  paradox.  He  is  a  singular  man  ;  at 
fifty,  he  is  as  active  as  if  he  were  but  twenty.  He 
is  dry,  nervous,  always  well  and  alert,  his  legs  for- 
ever in  motion,  his  head  fermenting  with  some 
idea  which  has  just  sprung  up  in  his  brain  and 
which  during  two  days  will  appear  to  him  the  finest 
in  the  world.  He  is  always  under  way  and  a 
hundred  paces  ahead  of  others,  seeking  truth  with 
rash  boldness,  even  to  loving  danger,  finding  pleas- 
ure in  contradicting  and  being  contradicted,  and 
now  and  then  deceived  by  his  militant  and  adven- 
turous spirit.  He  has  nothing  to  hamper  him ; 
neither  wife,  children,  place  nor  ambition.  I  like 
him,  notwithstanding  his  want  of  moderation,  be- 
cause he  is  sincere ;  bit  by  bit  he  has  told  me  his 
life,  and  I  have  found  out  his  tastes ;  his  name  is 
Paul,  and  he  was  left,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  without 
parents  and  with  an  income  of  twelve  thousand 
francs.  From  experience  of  himself  and  of  the 
world,  he  judged  that  an  occupation,  an  office  or  a 
household  would  weary  him,  and  he  has  remained 
free.  He  found  that  amusements  failed  to  amuse, 
and  he  gave  up  pleasures;  he  says  that  suppers 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES, 


109 


give  him  the  headache,  that  play  makes  him  ner- 
vous, that  a  respectable  mistress  ties  a  man  down, 
and  a  hired  mistress  disgusts  him.  So  he  has  turn- 
ed his  attention  to  travelling  and  reading.  "  It  is 
only  water,  if  you  will,"  said  he,  ''but  that  is  better 
than  your  doctored  wine  :  at  least,  it  is  better  for 
my  stomach."  Besides,  he  finds  himself  comforta- 
ble under  his  system,  and  maintains  that  tastes  such 
as  his  grow  with  age,  that,  in  shortMhe  most  sen- 
sible of  senses,  the  most  capable  of  new  and  vari-  [ 
ous  pleasures  is  the  brain.  *'  He  confesses  that  he  is 
dainty  in  respect  of  ideas,  slightly  selfish,  and  that 
he  looks  upon  the  world  merely  as  a  spectator,  as 
if  it  were  a  theatre  of  marionnettes.  I  grant  that  he 
is  a  thoroughly  good  fellow  at  heart,  usually  good- 
humored,  careful  not  to  step  on  the  toes  of  others, 
at  times  calculated  to  cheer  them  up,  and  that,  at 
least,  he  has  the  habit  of  remaining  modestly  and 
quietly  in  his  corner.  We  have  philosophized  be- 
yond measure  between  ourselves,  or  rather  against 
one  another  ;  you  may  skip  the  following  pages  if 
you  are  not  fond  of  dissertations. 

He  could  not  bear  to  have  people  go  up  a  moun- 
tain in  order  to  look  down  on  the  plain. 

**They  don't  know  what  they  are  doing,"  said  he. 
"  It  is  an  absurdity  of  perspective.  It  is  destroy- 
ing a  landscape  for  the  better  enjoyment  of  it.  At 
such  a  distance  there  are  neither  forms  nor  colors. 


no 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U. 


Book  II. 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


Ill 


The  heights  are  mere  molehills,  the  villages  are 
spots,  the  rivers  are  Hnes  drawn  by  a  pen.  The 
objects  are  all  lost  in  one  grayish  tint ;  the  contrast 
of  lights  and  shades  is  blotted  out ;  everything  is 
diminished  ;  you  make  out  a  multitude  of  imper- 
ceptible objects, — a  mere  Lilliputian  world.  And 
thereupon  you  cry  out  at  the  magnificence  !  Does 
a  painter  ever  take  it  into  his  head  to  scale  a 
height  in  order  to  copy  the  score  of  leagues  of 
ground  that  may  be  seen  from  thence  ?  That  is 
good  only  for  a  land-surveyor.  The  basins,  high- 
ways, tillage,  are  all  seen  as  in  an  atlas.  Do  you 
go  then  in  search  of  a  map  ?  A  landscape  is  a 
picture ;  you  should  put  yourself  at  the  point'  of 
sight.  But  no ;  the  beauty  is  all  ciphered  mathe- 
matically ;  it  is  calculated  that  an  elevation  of  a 
thousand  feet  makes  it  a  thousand  times  more 
beautiful.  The  operation  is  admirable,  and  its  only 
fault  is  that  it  is  absurd,  and  that  it  leads  throuo-h 
a  great  deal  of  fatigue  to  immeasurable  boredom." 

But  the  tourists,  when  once  at  the  summit,  are 
carried  away  with  enthusiasm. 

"  Pure  cowardice — they  are  afraid  of  being  ac- 
cused of  dryness,  and  of  being  thought  prosy; 
everybody  now-a-days  has  a  sublime  soul,  and  a 
sublime  soul  is  condemned  to  notes  of  admiration 
There  are  still  sheep-like  minds,  who  take  their 
admirations  on  trust  and  get  excited  out  of  mere 


imitation.      My   neighbor    says   that    this   is  fine, 
the  book  thinks  so  too  ;  I  have  paid  to  come  up, 
I  ought  to  be  charmed ;    accordingly  I  am.      I  was 
one  day  on  a  mountain  with  a  family  to  whom  the 
guide  pointed  out  an  indistinct  bluish  line,  saying, 
'  There  is  Toulouse  !      The  father,  with  sparkling 
eyes,  repeated  to  the  son,   ^  There  is  Toulouse  ! ' 
And  he,  at  sight  of  so  much  joy,  cried  with  trans- 
port,  *  There  is  Toulouse  ! '     They  learned  to  feel 
the  beautiful,  as  any  one  learns  to  bow,   through 
family  tradition.     It  is  so  that  artists  are  formed, 
and  that  the  great  aspects  of  Nature  imprint  for- 
ever  upon  the  soul  solemn  emotions." 
Then  an  ascent  is  an  error  of  taste  ? 
-  Not  at  all ;  if  the  plain  is  ugly,  seen  from  above, 
the  mountains  themselves  are  beautiful ;  and  indeed 
they  are  beautiful  only  from  above.  When  you  are  in 
the  valley  they  overwhelm  you  ;   you   cannot  take 
them  in,  you  see  only  one  side  of  them,  you  cannot 
appreciate  their  height  nor  their  size.     One  thou- 
sand feet  and  ten  thousand  are  all  the  same  to  you ; 
the  spectator  is  like  an  ant  in  a  well ;  at  one  mo- 
ment distance  blots  out  the  beauty ;  the  next,  it  is 
proximity  does  away  with  the    grandeur.      From 
the  top  of  a  peak,  on  the  other  hand,  the  moun- 
tains proportion  themselves  to  our  organs,  the  eye 
vsranders  over  the  ridges  and  takes  in  their  whole ; 
our     mind     comprehends     them,      because     our 


112 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book:  II. 


body  dominates  them.  Go  to  Saint-Sauveur,  to 
Bareges  ;  you  will  see  that  those  monstrous  masses 
have  as  expressive  a  physiognomy,  and  represent 
as  well-defined  an  idea  as  a  tree  or  an  animal. 
Here  you  have  found  nothing  but  pretty  details ; 
the  ensemble  is  tiresome." 

You  talk  of  this  country  as  a  sick  man  of  his 
doctor.  What  have  you  to  say  then  against  these 
mountains  ? 

'*  That  they  have  no  marked  character ;  they 
have  neither  the  austerity  of  bald  peaks  nor  the 
lovely  roundings  of  wooded  hills.  These  frag- 
ments of  grayish  verdure,  this  poor  mantle  of 
stunted  box  pierced  by  the  projecting  bones  of 
the  rock,  those  scattered  patches  of  yellowish 
moss,  resemble  rags ;  I  like  to  have  a  person  either 
naked  or  clothed,  and  do  not  like  your  tatterdema- 
lion. The  very  forms  are  wanting  in  grandeur,  the 
valleys  are  neither  abrupt  nor  smiling.  I  do  not 
find  the  perpendicular  walls,  the  broad  glaciers,  the 
heaps  of  bald  and  jagged  summits  which  are  seen 
further  on.  The  country  does  not  amount  to  much 
either  as  plain  or  mountain  ;  it  should  either  be  put 
forward  or  held  back." 

You  give  advice  to  Nature. 

"Why  not?  She  has  her  uncertainties  and  in- 
congruities like  any  one  else.  She  is  not  a  god, 
but  an  artist  whose  genius  inspires  him  to-day  and 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


"J 


to-morrow  lets  him  down  again.  A  landscape  in 
order  to  be  beautiful  must  have  all  its  parts  stamp- 
ed with  the  common  idea  and  contributing  to  pro- 
duce a  single  sensation.  If  it  gives  the  He  here  to 
what  it  says  yonder,  it  destroys  itself,  and  the  spec- 
tator is  in  the  presence  of  nothing  but  a  mass  of 
senseless  objects.  What  though  these  objects  be 
coarse,  dirty,  vulgar?  provided  they  make  up  a 
whole  by  their  harmony,  and  that  they  agree  in 
giving  us  a  single  Impression,  we  are  pleased.*' 

So  that  a  court-yard,  a  worm-eaten  hut,  a 
parched  and  melancholy  plain,  may  be  as  beautiful 
as  the  sublimest  mountain. 

'•  Certainly.  You  know  the  fields  of  the  Flemish 
painters,  how  flat  they  are  ;  you  are  never  tired  of 
looking  at  them.  Take  something  that  is  still  more 
trivial,  an  interior  of  Van  Ostade ;  an  old  peasant 
is  sharpening  a  chopping-knife  in  the  corner,  the 
mother  is  swaddling  her  nursling,  three  or  four 
brats  are  rolling  about  among  the  tools,  the  kettles 
and  benches  ;  a  row  of  hams  is  ranged  in  the  chim- 
ney, and  the  great  old  bed  is  displayed  in  the  back- 
ground under  its  red  curtains.  What  could  be 
more  common !  But  all  these  good  people  have 
an  air  of  peaceful  contentment;  the  babies  are 
warm  and  easy  in  the  over-wide  breeches,  glossy 
antiques  transmitted  from  generation  to  generation. 
There   must    have  been   habits    of    security   and 


114 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU, 


Book  II. 


Chap.  IV. 


LANDSCAPES. 


lie 


abundance,  for  a  scattered  household  to  lie  pell- 
mell  on  the  ground  in  this  fashion ;  this  comfort 
must  have  lasted  from  father  to  son,  for  the  furni- 
ture to  have  assumed  that  sombre  color  and  all  the 
hues  to  harmonize.  There  is  not  an  object  here 
that  does  not  point  to  the  unconstraint  of  an  easy- 
going life  and  uniform  good-nature.  If  this  mutual 
fitness  of  the  parts  is  the  mark  of  fine  painting, 
why  not  of  fine  nature  ?  Real  or  fancied,  the  ob- 
ject is  the  same ;  I  praise  or  I  blame  one  with  as 
good  right  as  the  other,  because  the  practice  or  the 
violation  of  the  same  rules  produces  in  me  the 
same  enjoyment  or  the  same  displeasure.'* 

Mountains  then  may  have  another  beauty  than 
that  of  grandeur  ? 

**  Yes,  since  they  sometimes  have  a  different  ex- 
pression. Look  at  that  little  isolated  chain, 
against  which  the  Thermes  support  themselves  :  no- 
body climbs  it ;  it  possesses  neither  great  trees,  nor 
naked  rocks,  nor  points  of  view.  And  yet  I  ex- 
perienced a  genuine  pleasure  there  yesterday ;  you 
follow  the  sharp  backbone  of  the  mountain  that 
protrudes  its  vertebrae  through  its  meagre  coating 
of  earth;  the  poor  but- thickset  turf,  sunburnt  and 
beaten  by  the  wind,  forms  a  carpet  firmly  sewn  with 
tenacious  threads  ;  the  half-dried  mosses,  the  knot- 
ty heaths  strike  their  stubborn  roots  down  between 
the  clefts  of  the  rock ;  the  stunted  firs  creep  along. 


i 


i 

1 

I 


tv/isting  their  horizontal  trunks.  An  aromatic  and 
penetrating  odor,  concentrated  and  drawn  forth  by 
the  heat,  comes  from  all  these  mountain  plants. 
You  feel  that  they  are  engaged  in  an  eternal  strug- 
p-le  aeainst  a  barren  soil,  a  dry  wind,  and  a  shower 
of  fiery  rays,  driven  back  upon  themselves,  hard- 
ened to  all  inclemencies,  and  determined  to  live. 
This  expression  is  the  soul  of  the  landscape ;  now, 
given  so  many  varied  expressions,  you  have  so 
many  different  beauties,  so  many  chords  of  pas- 
sion are  stirred.  The  pleasure  consists  in  seeing 
this  soul.  If  you  cannot  distinguish  it,  or  if  it  be 
wanting,  a  mountain  will  make  upon  you  precisely 
the  effect  of  a  heap  of  pebbles." 

That  is  an  attack  on  the  tourists ;  to-morrow  I 
will  test  your  reasoning  in  the  gorge  of  Eaux- 
Chaudes,  and  see  if  it  is  right 


CHAPTER  V. 


EA  UX-CHA  UDES. 


I. 


I 


On  the  north  of  the  valley  of  Ossau  is  a  cleft; 
It  is  the  way  to  Eaux-Chaudes.  An  entire  skirt  of 
the  mountain  was  torn  out  in  order  to  open  it; 
the  wind  eddies  through  the  hollows  of  this  chilly 
pass ;  the  precipitous  cut,  of  a  dark  iron-color,  lifts 
Its  formidable  mass  as  if  to  overwhelm  the  passer- 
by ;  upon  the  rocky  wall  opposite  are  perched  twisted 
trees  in  rows,  and  their  thin,  feathery  tops  wave 
strangely  among  the  reddish  projections.  The  high- 
way overhangs  the  Gave  which  eddies  five  hundred 
feet  below.  It  is  the  stream  which  has  hollowed  out 
this  prodigious  groove,  coming  back  again  and  again 
to  the  attack,  and  for  whole  centuries  together; 
two  rows  of  huge  rounded  niches  mark  the  lowering 
of  its  bed,  and  the  ages  of  its  toil ;  the  day  seems  to 
grow  dark  as  you  enter ;  it  is  only  a  strip  of  sky  that 
can  be  seen  above  the  head. 

On  the  right,  a  range  of  giant  cones  rises  into 
relief  against  the  intense  azure ;  their  bellies  crowd 
one  upon  another  and  protrude  in  rounded  masses ; 
but  their  lofty  peaks  swing  upward  with  a  dash,  with 


Chap.  V. 


EA  UX-CHA  UDES. 


117 


a  gigantic  sort  of  flight,  tov/ards  the  sublime  dome 
whence  streams  the  day.  The  light  of  August  falls 
on  the  stony  escarpments,  upon  the  broken  walls, 
where  the  rock,  damasked  and  engraven,  gleams 
like  an  oriental  cuirass.  Leprous  spots  of  moss  are 
there  incrusted ;  stems  of  dried  box  dangle  wretch- 
edly in  the  crannies ;  but  they  are  lost  sight  of  in 
such  heroic  nakedness:  the  ruddy  or  blackened 
colossi  display  themselves  in  triumph  in  the  splen- 
dor of  the  heavens. 

Between  two  channelles  granite  towers  stretches 
the  little  village  of  Eaux-Chaudes.  But  who,  here, 
pays  any  attention  to  the  village?  All  thought  is 
taken  up  by  the  mountains.  The  eastern  chain, 
abruptly  cut  off,  drops  perpendicularly  like  the  wall 
of  a  citadel ;  at  the  summit,  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  highway,  are  esplanades  expanding  in  forests 
and  meadows,  a  crown  green  and  moist,  whence 
cascades  ooze  forth  by  the  hundred.  They  wind 
broken  and  flaky  along  the  breast  of  the  mountain, 
like  necklaces  of  pearls  told  off  between  the  fingers, 
bathing  the  feet  of  the  lustrous  oaks,  deluging  the 
bowlders  with  their  tempest,  then  at  last  spreading 
themselves  out  in  long  beds  where  the  level  rock 
lures  them  to  sleep. 

The  wall  of  granite  falls  away;  at  the  east,  an 
amphitheatre  of  forests  suddenly  opens  up.  On  all 
sides,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  mountains  are 


I 


ii8 


THE   VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U, 


Book  II. 


Chap.  V. 


EA  UX-CHA  UDES. 


loaded  with  wood  to  the  very  top ;  several  of  them 
rise,  in  all  their  blackness,  into  the  heart  of  the  light, 
and  their  fringe  of  trees  bristles  against  the  pale 
sky.  The  charming  cup  of  verdure  rounds  its  gilded 
margin,  then  drops  into  hollows,  overflowing  with 
birch  and  oak,  with  tender,  changeable  hues  that 
lend  additional  sweetness  to  the  mists  of  morning. 
Not  a  hamlet  is  to  be  seen,  no  smoke,  no  culture; 
it  is  a  wild  and  sunny  nest,  no  doubt  like  to  the 
valley  that,  on  the  finest  day  of  the  happiest  spring- 
tide of  the  universe,  received  the  first  man. 

The  highway  makes  a  turn  and  everything 
changes.  The  old  troop  of  parched  mountains 
reappears  with  a  threatening  air.  One  of  them 
in  the  west  is  crumbling,  shattered  as  if  by  a 
Cyclopean  hammer.  It  is  strewn  with  squared  blocks, 
dark  vertebrae  snatched  from  its  spine ;  the  head  is 
wanting,  and  the  monstrous  bones,  crushed  and  in 
disorder,  scattered  to  the  brink  of  the  Gave,  an- 
nounce some  ancient  defeat.  Another  lying  opposite, 
with  a  dreary  air,  extends  its  bald  back  a  league  away ; 
in  vain  you  go  on  or  change  your  view,  it  is  always 
there,  always  huge  and  melancholy.  Its  naked 
granite  suffers  neither  tree  nor  spot  of  verdure ;  a 
few  patches  of  snow  alone  whiten  the  hollows  in  its 
sides,  and  its  monotonous  ridge  shifts  sadly  its  lines, 
blotting  out  half  the  sky  with  its  bastions. 

Gabas  is  a  hamlet  In  a  barren  plain.    The  torrent 


119 


here  rumbles  underneath  glaciers  and  among 
shattered  tree-trunks ;  it  descends,  lost  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  declivity,  between  colonnades  of  pines, 
the  mute  inhabitants  of  the  gorge.  The  silence 
and  constraint  contrast  with  the  desperate  leaps  of 
the  snowy  water.  It  is  cold  here,  and  everything 
is  sad ;  only,  on  the  horizon  may  be  seen  the  Pic 
du  Midi  in  its  splendor,  lifting  its  two  jagged 
piles  of  tawny  gray  into  the  serene  light. 

II. 

In  spite  of  myself  I  have  been  dreaming  here 
of  the  antique  gods,  sons  of  Greece,  and  made 
in  the  likeness  of  their  country.  They  were 
born  in  a  similar  country,  and  they  spring  to  life 
again  here  in  ourselves,  with  the  sentiments  which 
gave  birth  to  them. 

I  imagine  idle  and  curious  herdsmen,  of  fresh 
and  infantile  souls,  not  yet  possessed  by  the  au- 
thority of  a  neighboring  civilization  and  an  estab- 
lished dogma,  but  active,  hardy,  and  poets  by 
nature.  They  dream — and  of  what,  if  not  of  the 
huge  beings  that  all  day  long  besiege  their  eyes  ? 
How  fantastical  are  those  jagged  heads,  those 
bruised  and  heaped-up  bodies,  those  twisted 
shoulders  !  What  unknowm  monsters,  what  mel- 
ancholy, misshapen  race,   alien  to  humanity !      By 


120 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU.  Book  IL 


what  dread  travail  has    the    earth  brought    them 
forth    from  her   womb,   and  what    contests    have 
their  blasted  heads  sustained  amidst    clouds    and 
thunderbolts!      They    still    threaten    to-day;    the 
eao-les  and  the  vultures  are  alone  welcome  to  sound 
their  depths.     They  love  not  man  ;  their  bowlders 
lie  in  wait  to    roll  upon  him,  so  soon  as  he  shall 
violate  their  solitudes.     With  a  shiver   they  hurl 
upon  his  harvests  a  tide  of  rocks  ;  they  have  but  to 
gather  up  a  storm  in  order  to  drown  him  like  an 
ant.     How  changeable  is  their  face,  but  always  to 
be    dreaded !     What  lightnings  their  summits  hurl 
among  the  creeping  fogs  !     That  flash  causes  fear 
like  the  eye  of  some  tyrant  god,  seen  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  hid  again.      There  are  mountains  that 
weep,   amidst  their  gloomy  bogs,   and  their  tears 
trickle  down  their  aged  cheeks  with  a  hollow  sob, 
betwixt  pines  that  rusrie  and  whisper  sorrowfully, 
as  if  pitying  that  eternal  mourning.     Others,  seat- 
ed in  a  ring,  bathe  their  feet  in  lakes  the  color  of 
steel,  and  which  no  wind  ever  ruffles;    they  are 
happy  in  such  calm,  and  gaze  into  the  virgin  wave 
at  their  silver  helmet.    How  mysterious  are  they  at 
night,  and  what  evil  thoughts  do  they  turn  over  in 
winter,  when  wrapped  in   their   shroud   of   snow! 
But  in  the  broad  day  and  in  summer,  with  what  buoy- 
ancy and  how  glorified  rises  their  forehead  to  the 
sublimest  heights    of  air,  into    pure    and    radiant 


Chap.  V. 


EA  UX-CHA  UDES. 


X2I 


realms,  into  light,  to  their  own  native  country.  All 
scarred  and  monstrous  though  they  be,  they  are 
still  the  gods  of  the  earth,  and  they  have  aspired  to 
be  gods  of  heaven. 

But  lo,  where  comes  a  second  race,  lovely  and 
almost  human,  the   choir  of  the  nymphs,   fleeting 
and  melting  creatures  who  are  daughters  of  those 
misshapen  colossuses.     How   comes  it  that    they 
have  beeotten   them?     No  one  knows;  the  birth 
of  the  gods,  full  of  mystery,  eludes    mortal   eye. 
Some  say  that  their  first  pearl  has  been  seen  to 
ooze  from  an  herb,  or  from  a  cranny  beneath  the 
glaciers,  in  the  uplands.     But  they  have  dwelulong 
in  the  paternal  bowels ;  some,  burning  ones,  keep 
the  memory  of  that  inner  furnace  whose  bubbling 
they  have  looked  upon,  and  which,  from  time   to 
time,  still  makes  the  ground  to  tremble ;  others,  icy 
cold,  have  crossed  the  eternal  winter  that  whitens 
the  summits.     At  the  outset,  all  retain  the  fire  of 
their   race;    dishevelled,    screaming,    raving,    they 
bruise  themselves    against  the  rocks,  they   cleave 
the  valleys,  sweep   away  trees,  struggle  and   are 
sullied.      What    transport    is  here— maidenly  and 
bacchanal!       But,    once    they   have     reached  the 
smooth  beds  which  the  rounded  rock  spreads  out 
for  them,    they  smile,    they    hush    themselves    in 
sleep,    or  they  sport.      Their  deep  eyes  of  liquid 

emerald  have  their  flashes.     Their  bodies  bow  and 
6 


122 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  II 


rise  again;    in  the  vapors  of  morning,   in  sudden 
falls,    their    water    swells,    soft   and    satiny    as    a 
woman  s   breast.      With    what    tenderness,    what 
delicately  wild  quiverings  they  caress  the  bended 
flowers,  the  shoots  of  fragrant  thyme  that    thrive 
between   two   rocky  edges   on   the  bank  !     Then 
with  sudden  caprice  they  plunge  deep  down  in  a 
cavern,  and  scream  and  writhe  as  mad  and  way- 
ward as  any  child.     What  happiness  in  spreading 
out  thus   to  the   sun !     What   strange   gayety,  or 
what  divine  tranquillity,  in  that  transparent  wave  as 
it    laughs   or    eddies!     Neither    the  eye  nor   the 
diamond  has  that  changeful  clearness,  those  burn- 
ing and  glaucous  reflections,  those   inward   trem- 
blings of  pleasure  or  of  anxiety ;    women  though 
they   are,   they    are  indeed    goddesses.     Without 
more  than  human  might,  would  they  have  availed, 
with  their  soft  wave,  to  wear  these  hard  clifls,  to 
bore  through  these  impregnable  barriers?     And  by 
what  secret  virtue  do  they   know,   they,  so  inno- 
cent of  aspect,  how  at  one  time  to  torture  and  slay 
him  who  drinks,  and,  again,  to  heal  the  infirm  and 
the   invalid?     They  hate    the   one   and  love   the 
other,  and,  like  their  fathers,  they  bestow  life  and 
death  at  their  pleasure. 

Such  is  the  poetry  of  the  pagan  world,  of  the 
childhood  of  mankind ;  thus  each  one  framed  it  for 
himself,  in  the  dawn  of  things,  at  the  awaking  of 


Chap.  V. 


EA  UX-CHA  UDES. 


123 


I 


imagination  and  conscience,  long  before  the  age 
when  reflection  set  up  defined  worship  and  studied 
dogmas.  Among  the  dreams  that  blossomed  in 
the   morning   of  the  world,  I  love  only  those  of 

Ionia. 

Hereupon  Paul  became  vexed,  and  called  me  a 
classicist :  **  You  are  all  like  that !  You  take  one 
step  forward  into  an  idea,  and  then  stop  short  like 
cowards.  Come  now  ;  there  are  a  hundred  Olym- 
puses  in  Egypt,  in  Iceland,  in  India.  Each  one  of 
those  landscapes  is  an  aspect  of  Nature  ;  each  of 
those  gods  is  one  of  the  forms  in  which  man  has 
expressed  his  idea  of  Nature.  Admire  the  god 
by  the  same  standard  as  the  landscape  ;  the  onion 
of  Egypt  is  worth  as  much  as  Olympian  Jove." 

That  is  too  strong,  yet  I  take  you  at  your  word ; 
you  shall  stand  by  your  assertion,  and  extract  a  god 

from  your  onion. 

"  This  very  instant ;  but  first  transport  yourself 
to  Egypt,  before  the  coming  of  warriors  and 
priests,  upon  the  river-ooze,  among  savages  half 
naked  in  the  mire,  half  drowned  in  water,  half  burn- 
ed by  the  sun.  What  a  sight  is  that  of  this  great 
black  shore  steaming  under  the  heat,  where  croco- 
diles and  writhing  fish  lash  the  waters  of  the  pools ! 
M)Tiads  of  mosquitoes  buzz  in  the  air;  large- 
leaved  plants  lift  their  tangled  mass  ;  the  earth  fer- 
ments and  teems  with  life ;  the  brain  grows  giddy 


TT 


124 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U. 


Book  II 


with  the  heavy  exhalations,  and  man,  made  rest- 
less, shudders  as  he  feels  in  the  air  and  coursing 
through  his  limbs  the  generative  virtue  by  whose 
means  everything  multiplies  and  grows  green.  A 
year  ago  nothing  grew  on  this  ooze :  what  a 
change !  There  springs  from  it  a  tall,  straight 
reed,  with  shining  thongs,  the  stem,  swollen  with 
juices,  striking  deep  into  the  slime ;  with  every  day 
it  expands  and  changes:  green  at  the  outset,  it 
reddens  like  the  sun  behind  the  mists.  Unceas- 
ingly does  this  child  of  the  ooze  suck  therefrom 
juices  and  force  ;  the  earth  broods  over  it  and  com- 
mits to  it  its  every  virtue.  See  it  now,  how,  of  its 
own  accord,  it  lifts  itself  halfway,  and  at  last  wholly, 
and  warms  in  the  sun  its  scaly  belly  filled  with  an 
acrid  blood ;  blood  that  boils,  and  so  exuberant  that 
it  bursts  the  triple  skin  and  oozes  through  the 
wound.  What  a  strange  life  !  and  by  what  miracle 
IS  it  that  the  point  of  the  summit  becomes  a  plume 
and  a  parasol  ?  Those  who  first  gathered  it  wept, 
as  though  some  poison  had  burned  their  eyes ;  but 
in  the  winter-time,  when  fish  fails,  it  rejoices  him  who 
meets  it.  Those  enormous  heaped-up  globes,  are 
they  not  the  hundred  breasts  of  the  great  nurse, 
mother  Earth  ?  New  ones  reappear  as  often  as 
the  waters  retire ;  there  is  some  divine  force  hid- 
den beneath  those  scales.  May  it  never  fail  to  re- 
turn !     The  crocodile  is  god,  because  it  devours  us ; 


Chap.  V. 


EA  UX-CHA  UDES, 


125 


the  ichneumon   is   god,  because  it  saves  us  ;   the 
onion  is  god,  because  it  nourishes  us." 

The  onion  is  god,  and  Paul  is  its  prophet ;  you 
shall  have  some  this  evening,  with  white  sauce. 
But,  my  dear  friend,  you  frighten  me ;  you  blot  out 
with  one  stroke  three  thousand  years  of  history. 
You  put  on  one  level  races  of  artists   and  races 
of  visionaries,  savage  tribes  and  civilized   nations. 
I   like  the  crocodile  and  the  onion,  but  I  like  Jupi- 
ter and  Diana  better.     The  Greeks  have  invented 
the  arts  and  sciences;   the  Egyptians  have   only 
left  some  heaps  of  ashlar- work.     A  block  of  granite 
is  not  as  good  as  either  Aristotle  or  Homer.     They 
are  everywhere  the  first  who,  through  clear  reason- 
ing, have  reached  a  conception  of  justice  and  have 
made  science.     Then,  however  evil  our  time  may 
be,  it  surpasses  many  another.      Your  grotesque 
and  oriental  hallucinations  are  beautiful,  at  a  dis- 
tance however ;    I  am  willing  to  contemplate  them, 
but  not  to  submit  to  them.     Now-a-days  we  have 
no  poetry,  be  it  so  ;  but  we  appreciate  the  poetry  of 
others.     If  our  museum  is  poor,  we  have  the  mu- 
seums of  all  ages  and  all  nations.     Do  you  know 
what  I   get  from  your  theories?     Three  times    a 
month  they  will  save  me  four  francs ;  I  shall  find 
fairy  land  in  them,  and  shall  have  no  further  occa- 
sion for  going  to  the  opera. 


1 


CHAPTER   VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 

I. 

On  the  eighth  of  August,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  piercing  note  of  a  flageolet  was 
to  be  heard  at  half  a  league's  distance  from  Eaux- 
Bonnes,  and  the  bathers  set  out  for  Aas.  The 
way  there  is  by  a  narrow  road  cut  in  the  Monta- 
gue Verte,  and  overhung  with  lavender  and  bunches 
of  wild  flowers.  We  entered  upon  a  street  six 
feet  in  width :  it  is  the  main  street.  Scarlet-capped 
children,  wondering  at  their  own  magnificence, 
stood  bolt  upright  in  the  doorways  and  looked  on 
us  in  silent  admiration.  The  public  square,  at  the 
side  of  the  lavatory,  is  as  large  as  a  small  room ; 
It  is  here  that  dances  take  place.  Two  hogsheads 
had  been  set  up,  two  planks  upon  the  hogsheads, 
two  chairs  upon  the  planks,  and  on  the  chairs  two 
musicians,  the  whole  surmounted  by  two  splendid 
blue  umbrellas  which  did  service  as  parasols ;  for 
the  sky  was  brazen,  and  there  was  not  a  tree  on 
the  square. 

The  whole  formed  an  exceedingly  pretty  and 
origincJ  picture.     Under  the  roof  of  the  lavatory,  a 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 


127 


group  of  old  women  leaned  against  the  pillars  in 
talk ;  a  crystal  stream  gushed  forth  and  ran  down 
the  slated  gutter ;  three  small  children  stood  mo- 
tionless, with  wide-open,  questioning  eyes.  The 
young  men  were  at  exercise  in  the  pathway,  play- 
ing at  base.  Above  the  esplanade,  on  points  of 
rock  forming  shelves,  the  women  looked  down  on 
the  dance,  in  holiday  costume;  a  great  scarlet 
hood,  a  body  embroidered  in  silver,  or  in  silk  with 
violet  flowers ;  a  yellow,  long-fringed  shawl ;  a 
black  petticoat  hanging  in  folds,  close  to  the 
figure,  and  white  woollen  gaiters.  These  strong 
colors,  the  lavished  red,  the  reflexes  of  the  silk 
under  a  dazzling  light,  were  delightful.  About 
the  two  hogsheads  w^as  wheeling,  with  a  supple, 
measured  movement,  a  sort  of  roundelay,  to  an 
odd  and  monotonous  air  terminated  by  a  shrill  false 
note  of  startling  effect.  A  youth  in  woollen  vest 
and  breeches  led  the  band  ;  the  young  girls  moved 
gravely,  without  talking  or  laughing;  their  little 
sisters  at  the  end  of  the  file  took  great  pains  in 
practising  the  step,  and  the  line  of  purple  capulefs 
slowly  waved  like  a  crown  of  peonies.  Occasion- 
ally the  leader  of  the  dance  gave  a  sudden  bound 
with  a  savage  cry,  and  recalled  to  our  mind  that 
we  were  in  the.  land  of  bears,  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  mountains. 

Paul  was  there  under  his  umbrella,  wagging  his 


I2S 


THE   VALLE  V  OF  OSSA  U. 


Book  II. 


great  beard  with  a  look  of  delight.     Had  he  been 
able,  he  would  have  followed  the  dance. 

"  Was  I  right?  Is  there  a  single  thing  here  out 
of  harmony  with  the  rest,  and  which  the  sun,  the 
climate,  the  soil,  do  not  make  suitable  ?  These 
people  are  poets.  They  must  have  been  in  love 
with  the  light  to  have  invented  these  splendid  cos- 
tumes. Never  would  a  northern  sun  have  inspired 
this  feast  of  color ;  their  costume  harmonizes  with 
their  sky.  In  Flanders,  they  would  look  like 
mountebanks ;  here  they  are  as  beautiful  as  their 
country.  You  no  longer  notice  the  ugly  features, 
the  sunburnt  faces,  the  thick,  knotty  hands  that 
yesterday  offended  you ;  the  sun  enlivens  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  dresses,  and  in  that  golden  splendor 
all  ugliness  disappears.  I  have  seen  people  who 
laughed  at  the  music ;  '  the  air  is  monotonous,' 
they  say,  '  contrary  to  all  rule,  it  has  no  ending ; 
those  notes  are  false.'  At  Paris,  that  may  be ;  but 
here,  no.  Have  you  remarked  that  wild  and 
original  expression  ?  How  it  suits  the  landscape  ! 
That  air  could  have  sprung  up  nowhere  but  among 
the  mountains.  The  frou-frou  of  the  tambourine  is 
as  the  languid  voice  of  the  wind  when  it  coasts 
the  narrow  valleys ;  the  shrill  tone  of  the  flageolet 
is  the  whistling  of  the  breeze  when  it  is  heard  on 
the  naked  summits  ;  that  final  note  is  the  cry  of 
a  hawk  in   the   depths  of  the  air ;  the  mountain 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 


129 


>': 


sounds  too  are  recognizable,  hardly  transformed  by 
the  rhythm  of  the  song.  And  then  the  dance  is  as 
primitive,  as  natural,  as  suitable  to  the  country  as 
the  music  :  they  go  wheeling  about  hand  in  hand. 
What  could  be  more  simple !  It  is  thus  that  the 
children  do  at  their  play.  The  step  is  supple 
and  slow ;  that  is  as  the  mountaineer  walks ;  you 
know  by  experience  that  you  must  not  be  in  too 
much  haste  if  you  would  climb,  and  that  here  the 
stiff  strides  of  a  town-bred  man  will  bring  him 
to  the  ground.  That  leap,  that  seems  to  you  so 
strange,  is  one  of  their  habits,  hence  one  of  their 
pleasures.  To  make  up  a  festival  they  have  chosen 
what  they  found  agreeable  among  the  things  to 
which  their  eyes,  ears  and  legs  were  habituated. 
Is  not  this  festival  then  the  most  national,  the 
truest,  the  most  harmonious,  and  hence  the  most 
beautiful  that  can  be  imagined  ?  " 


II. 

Laruns  is  a  market-town.  Instead  of  a  hogs- 
head there  were  four  times  two  hogsheads 
and  as  many  musicians,  all  playing  together, 
and  each  one  a  different  portion  of  the  same  air. 
This  clatter  excepted  and  a  few  magnificent  pairs 
of  velvet  breeches,  the  festival  was  the  same  as  that 

at  Aas.  What  we  go  there  to  see  is  the  procession. 
6* 


I30 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU. 


Book  II. 


At  first  everybody  attends  vespers  ;  the  women 
in  the  sombre  nave  of  the  church,  the  men  in  a 
gallery,  the  small  boys  in  a  second  gallery  higher 
up,  under  the  eye  of  a  frowning  schoolmaster. 
The  young  girls,  kneeling  close  to  the  gratings  of 
the  choir,  repeated  Ave  Marias^  to  which  the  deep 
voice  of  the  congregation  responded ;  their  clear, 
metallic  voices  formed  a  pretty  contrast  to  the  hol- 
low buzzing  of  the  resounding  responses.  Some 
wolfish-looking  old  mountaineers,  from  thirty  miles 
away,  made  the  blackened  wood  of  the  balustrade 
creak  as  they  clumsily  bent  the  knee.  A  twilight 
fell  on  the  dense  crowd,  and  made  yet  darker  the 
expression  of  those  energetic  countenances.  One 
might  have  fancied  himself  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  Meanwhile  the  little  bells  chattered  joy- 
ously with  their  shrill  voices,  and  made  all  possible 
noise,  like  a  roost  full  of  fowls  at  the  top  of  the 
white  tower. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  the  procession  arranged 
itself  very  artistically  and  went  forth.  The  first 
part  of  the  cortege  was  amusing :  two  rows  of 
Htde  scapegraces  in  red  vests,  their  hands  clasped 
over  their  bellies,  in  order  to  keep  their  book  in 
place,  tried  to  give  themselves  an  air  of  compunc- 
tion, and  looked  at  each  other  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  eyes  in  a  manner  truly  comical.  This 
band  of  masquerading  monkeys  was  led  by  a  jolly 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


13' 


\ 


stout  priest,  whose  folded  bands,  cuffs,  and  hang- 
ing laces  fluttered  and  waved  like  wings.  Then 
a  sorry  beadle,  in  a  soiled  douajtiers  coat;  then 
a  fine  maire  in  uniform,  with  his  sword  at  his  side  ; 
then  two  long  seminarians,  two  plump  little  priests, 
a  banner  of  the  Virgin,  finally  all  the  douaniers  and 
all  the  gendarmes  of  the  country ;  in  short,  all  the 
grandeurs,  all  the  splendors,  all  the  actors  of  civil- 
ization. 

The  Barbarians  however  were  more  beautiful: 
it  was  the  procession  of  men  and  women  who, 
taper  in  hand,  filed  by  during  three-quarters  of  an 
hour.  I  saw  in  it  true  Henry  IV.  faces,  with  the 
severe  and  intelligent  expression,  the  proud  and 
serious  bearing,  the  large  features  of  his  contempo- 
raries. Especially  there  were  some  old  herdsmen 
in  russet  great-coats  of  hairy  felt,  their  brows  not 
wrinkled  but  furrowed,  bronzed  and  burned  by  the 
sun,  their  glances  savage  as  those  of  a  wild  beast, 
worthy  of  having  lived  in  the  time  of  Charlemagne. 
Surely  those  who  defied  Roland  were  not  more 
savage  in  physiognomy.  Finally  appeared  five  or 
six  old  women,  the  like  of  whom  I  could  never 
have  imagined :  a  hooded  cloak  of  white  woollen 
stuff  enfolded  them  like  a  bed-blanket;  only  the 
swarthy  countenance  was  visible,  their  eyes  deep 
and  fierce  like  the  she- wolf  s,  their  mumbling  lips, 
that  seemed  to  be  muttering  spells.     They  called 


*^  ■  ■>. 


132 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U. 


Book  II, 


to  mind  involuntarily  the  witches  in  Macbeth ;  the 
mind  was  transported  a  hundred  leagues  away 
from  cities,  into  barren  gorges,  beneath  lone  gla- 
ciers where  the  herdsmen  pass  whole  months  amidst 
the  snows  of  winter,  near  to  the  growling  bears, 
without  hearing  one  human  word,  with  no  other 
companions  than  the  gaunt  peaks  and  the  dreary 
fir-trees.  They  have  borrowed  from  solitude 
something  of  its  aspect. 

III. 

The  Ossalais,  however,  have  ordinarily  a  gentle, 
intelligent,  and  somewhat  sad  physiognomy.  The 
soil  is  too  poor  to  impart  to  their  countenance  that 
expression  of  impatient  vivacity  and  lively  spirit  that 
the  wine  of  the  south  and  the  easy  life  give  to  their 
neighbors  of  Languedoc.  Three-score  leagues  in 
a  carriage  prove  that  the  soil  moulds  the  type. 
A  little  farther  up,  in  the  Cantal,  a  country  of  chest- 
nut-trees, where  the  people  fill  themselves  with  a 
hearty  nourishment,  you  will  see  countenances  red 
with  sluggish  blood  and  set  with  a  thick  beard, 
fleshy,  heavy-limbed  bodies,  massive  machines  for 
labor.  Here  the  men  are  thin  and  pale ;  their 
bones  project,  and  their  large  features  are  weather- 
beaten  like  those  of  their  mountains.  An  endless 
struggle  against  the  soil  has  stunted  the  women  as 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


13: 


'>    ; 


well  as  the  plants  ;  it  has  left  in  their  eyes  a  vague 
expression  of  melancholy  and  reflection.  Thus  the 
incessant  impressions  of  body  and  soul  in  the  long 
run  modify  body  and  soul ;  the  race  moulds  the 
individual,  the  country  moulds  the  race.  A  de- 
gree of  heat  in  the  air  and  of  inclination  in  the 
ground  is  the  first  cause  of  our  faculties  and  of  our 
passions. 

Disinterestedness  is  not  a  mountain  virtue.  In 
a  poor  country,  the  first  want  is  want  of  money. 
The  dispute  is  to  know  whether  they  shall  consider 
strangers  as  a  prey  or  a  harvest ;  both  opinions  are 
true  :  we  are  a  prey  which  every  year  yields  a 
harvest.  Here  is  an  incident,  trifling,  but  capable 
of  showing  the  dexterity  and  the  ardor  with  which 
they  will  skin  a  flint. 

One  day  Paul  told  his  servant  to  sew  another 
button  upon  his  trousers.  An  hour  after  she 
brings  in  the  trousers,  and,  with  an  undecided, 
anxious  air,  as  if  fearing  the  effect  of  her  demand : 
**  It  is  a  sou,"  said  she.  I  will  explain  later  how 
great  a  sum  the  sou  is  in  this  place. 

Paul  draws  out  a  sou  in  silence  and  gives  it  to 
her.  Jeannette  retires  on  tip-toe  as  far  as  the  door, 
thinks  better  of  it,  returns,  takes  up  the  trousers 
and  shows  the  button :  *'  Ah  !  that  is  a  fine  button  ! 
(A  pause.)  I  did  not  find  that  in  my  box. 
(Another  and  a  longer  pause).     I  bought  that  at 


■ 


134 


THE  VALLE  V  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  II. 


♦ 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 


135 


the  grocer's  ;  it  costs  a  sou  !  "  She  draws  herself 
up  anxiously ;  the  proprietor  of  the  trousers,  still 
without  speaking,  gives  a  second  sou. 

It  is  clear  that  she  has  struck  upon  a  mine  of 
sous.  Jeannette  goes  out,  and  a  moment  after  re- 
opens the  door.  She  has  resolved  on  her  course, 
and  in  a  shrill,  piercing  voice,  with  admirable  volu- 
bility :  **  I  had  no  thread ;  I  had  to  buy  some 
thread,  I  used  a  good  deal  of  thread ;  good  thread, 
too.  The  button  won't  come  off.  I  sewed  it  on 
fast :  it  cost  a  sou."  Paul  pushes  across  the  table 
the  third  sou. 

Two  hours  later,  Jeannette,  who  has  been  pon- 
dering on  the  matter,  reappears.  She  prepares 
breakfast  with  the  greatest  possible  care  ;  she  takes 
pains  to  wipe  the  least  spot,  she  lowers  her  voice, 
she  walks  noiselessly,  she  is  charming  in  her  little 
attentions ;  then  she  says,  putting  forth  all  sorts  of 
obsequious  graces :  *'  I  ought  not  to  lose  anything, 
you  would  not  want  me  to  lose  anything ;  the  cloth 
was  harsh,  I  broke  the  point  of  my  needle  ;  I  did 
not  know  it  a  while  ago,  I  have  just  noticed  it ;  it 
cost  a  sou." 

Paul  drew  out  the  fourth  sou,  saying  with  his  seri- 
ous air :  **  Cheer  up,  Jeannette  ;  you  will  keep  a  good 
house,  my  child ;  happy  the  husband  who  shall  lead 
you,  pure  and  blushing,  beneath  the  roof  of  his  an- 
cestors ;  you  may  go  and  brush  the  trousers." 


I 


i 


Beggars  swarm.  I  have  never  met  a  child  be- 
tween the  ages  of  four  and  fifteen  years  who  did  not 
ask  alms  of  me ;  all  the  inhabitants  follow  this 
trade.  No  one  is  ashamed  of  it.  You  look  at  any 
one  of  the  little  girls,  scarcely  able  to  walk,  seated 
at  their  threshold  busy  in  eating  an  apple  :  they 
come  stumbling  along  with  their  hands  stretched 
out  towards  you.  You  find  in  a  valley  a  young 
herdsman  with  his  cows  ;  he  comes  up  and  asks 
you  for  a  trifle.  A  tall  girl  goes  by  with  a  fagot 
on  her  head ;  she  stops  and  asks  a  trifle  of  you. 
A  peasant  is  at  work  on  the  road.  "  I  am  making 
a  good  road  for  you,"  says  he  ;  *'  give  me  just  a 
trifle."  A  band  of  scapegraces  are  playing  at  the 
end  of  a  promenade  ;  as  soon  as  they  see  you,  they 
take  each  other  by  the  hand,  begin  the  dance  of  the 
country,  and  end  by  collecting  the  usual  trifle. 
And  so  it  is  throughout  the  Pyrenees. 

And  they  are  merchants  as  well  as  beggars). 
You  rarely  pass  along  the  street  without  being  ac- 
costed by  a  guide  who  offers  you  his  services  and 
begs  you  to  give  him  the  preference.  If  you  are 
seated  on  the  hillside,  three  or  four  children  come 
dropping  out  of  the  sky,  bringing  you  butterflies, 
stones,  curious  plants,  bouquets  of  flowers.  If  you 
go  near  a  dairy,  the  proprietor  comes  out 
with  a  porringer  of  milk,  and  will  sell  it  to  you 
in  spite    of  yourself.     One  day    as    I    was  look 


•'f 


13^ 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU,  Book  III. 


ing  at  a  young   bull,  the   drover  proposed   to  me 
to  buy  it. 

This  greediness  is  not  offensive.    I  once  went  up 
the  brook  of  la  Soude,  behind  Eaux-Bonnes:  it  is  a 
sort  of  tumble-down  staircase  which  for  three  leagues 
winds  among  the  box  in  a  parched  ravine.    You  have 
to  clamber  over  pointed  rocks,  jump  from  point  to 
point,  balance  yourself  along  narrow  ledges,  climb 
zigzag  up  the  scarped  slopes  covered  with  rolling 
stones.     The  foot-path    is  enough  to  frighten  the 
goats.    You  bruise  your  feet  on  it,  and  at  every  step 
run  the  risk  of  getting  a  sprain.     I  met  there  some 
young  women  and  girls  of  twenty,  all  barefooted, 
carrying  to  the  village,  one  a  block  of  marble  in  her 
basket,  another  three  sacks  of  charcoal  fastened  to- 
gether, another  five  or  six  heavy  planks ;  the  way  is 
nine  miles  long,  under  a  mid-day  sun ;  and  nine  miles 
for  the  home  journey :    for  this  they  are  paid  ten 
sous. 

Like  the  beggars  and  the  merchants,  they  are 
very  crafty  and  very  polite.  Poverty  forces  men  to 
calculate  and  to  please ;  they  take  off  their  cap  as 
soon  as  you  speak  to  them  and  smile  complaisantly  ; 
their  manners  are  never  brutal  or  artless.  The 
proverb  says  very  truly:  '^  False  and  courteous 
Bearnais."  You  recall  to  mind  the  caressing  man- 
ners  and  the  perfect  skill  of  their  Henry  IV.  ;  he 
knew  how  to  play  on  everybody  and  offend  nobody. 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 


m 


In  this  respect,  as  in  many  others,  he  was  a  true 
Bearnais.  With  the  aid  of  necessity,  I  have  seen 
them  trump  up  geological  disquisitions.  In  the 
middle  of  July  there  was  a  sort  of  earthquake ;  a 
report  was  spread  that  an  old  wall  had  fallen  down  ; 
in  truth  the  windows  had  shaken  as  if  a  great  wagon 
were  passing  by.  Immediately  half  of  the  bathers 
quitted  their  lodgings :  a  hundred  and  fifty  persons 
fled  from  Cauterets  in  two  days ;  travellers  in  their 
night-shirts  ran  to  the  stable  to  fasten  on  their  car- 
riages, and  to  light  themselves  carried  away  the 
hotel  lantern.  The  peasants  shook  their  heads 
compassionately  and  said  to  me :  '*  You  see,  sir, 
they  are  going  from  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire ;  if 
there  is  an  earthquake,  the  plain  will  open,  and 
they  will  fall  into  the  crevices,  whereas  here  the 
mountain  is  solid,  and  would  keep  them  safe  as  a 
house." 

That  same  Jeannette  who  already  holds  so  honor- 
able place  in  my  history,  shall  furnish  an  example 
of  the  polite  caution  and  the  over-scrupulous  reserve 
in  which  they  wrap  themselves  when  they  are  afraid 
that  they  shall  be  compromised.  The  master  had 
drawn  the  neighboring  church,  and  wanted  to  judge 
of  his  work  after  the  manner  of  Moliere. 

'*  Do  you  recognize  that,  Jeanette.' 

'*  Ah  !  monsieur,  did  you  do  that  ? 

**  What  have  I  copied  here  ? 


it 


it 


»t 


138 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  II. 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 


139 


"  Ah  !  monsieur,  it  is  very  beautiful." 

**  But  still,  tell  me  what  it  is  there." 

She  takes  the  paper,  turns  it  over  and  over  again, 
looks  at  the  artist  with  a  dazed  air  and  says 
nothing. 


*'  Is  it  a  mill  or  a  church  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Is  it  the  church  of  Laruns  ?  " 

''Ah  !  it's  very  beautiful." 

You  could  never  get  her  beyond  that. 

IV. 

We  had  a  wish  to  know  if  the  fathers  were  equal 
to  the  sons ;  and  we  have  found  the  history  of 
Beam  in  a  fine  red  folio,  composed  in  the  year 
1640,  by  Master  Pierre  de  Marca,  a  Bearnais, 
counsellor  of  the  king  in  his  state  and  privy  coun- 
cils, and  president  in  his  court  of  the  parliament  of 
Navarre ;  the  whole  ornamented  with  a  magnificent 
engraving  representing  the  conquest  of  the  Golden 
Fleece.  Pierre  de  Marca  makes  several  important 
discoveries  in  his  book,  among  others,  that  of  two 
kings  of  Navarre,  personages  of  the  ninth  century, 
until  then  unknown  :  Semeno  Enneconis,  and  En- 
neco  Semenonis. 

Although  filled  with  respect  for  Semeno  Enne- 
conis and  Enneco   Semenonis,  we  are  desperately 


t 


wearied  with  the  recital  of  the  suits,  the  robberies 
and  the  genealogies  of  all  the  illustrious  unknown. 
Paul  maintains  that  learned  history  is  only  good 
for  learned  asses  ;]^-,a  thousand  dates  do  not  make  [ 
a   single   idea.y.  The    celebrated   historian   of  the 
Swiss,  Jean  de   Muller,  once  wanted  to  rehearse 
the  list  of  all  the  Swiss  nobility,  and   forgot  the 
fifty-first  descendant  of  some   undiscoverable  vis- 
count ;  he  became  ill  with  grief  and  shame  ;  it  is  as 
if  a  general  should  wish  to  know  how  many  but- 
tons each   of  his  soldiers  had  on  his  coat. 

We  have  found  that  these   good  mountaineers 
have  ever  loved  gain  and  booty.     It  is  so   natural 
to  wish  to  live,  and  live  well  too  !      Above  all  is  it 
pleasant  to  live  at  the  expense  of  others  !      Time 
was  when,  in  Scotland,  every  shipwrecked  vessel 
belonged   to   the  coast-side  people ;    the  wrecked 
ships   came  to  them  like  herrings  in  the  season,  a 
hereditary  and  legitimate  harvest ;  they  felt  robbed 
if  one  of  the  crew  attempted  to  keep  his  coat.     It 
is  so   here   with    strangers.      The   rear-guard   of 
Charlemagne,   under  Roland,   perished   here;   the 
mountaineers  rolled  down  upon  it  an  avalanche  of 
stone;  then   they    divided  the   stuffs,    the    silver, 
mules  and  baggage,  and  each  one  betook  himsell 
to  his  den.     In  the  like  manner  they  treated  a  sec- 
ond army  sent  by  Louis  le  Debonnaire.     I   fancy 
they  regarded  these  passages  as  a  blessing  from 


140 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU, 


Book  II» 


heaven,  a  special  gift  from  divine  Providence. 
Fine  cuirasses,  new  lances,  necklaces,  well-lined 
coats,  it  was  a  perfect  magazine  of  gold,  iron  and 
wool.  Very  likely  the  wives  ran  to  meet  them, 
blessing  the  good  husband  who  had  been  the  most 
thoughtful  of  the  welfare  of  his  little  family,  and 
brought  back  the  greatest  quantity  of  provisions. 
This  artlessness  in  respect  of  theft  still  exists  in 
Calabria.  In  Napoleon's  time,  a  prefect  was  scold- 
ing a  well-to-do  peasant  who  was  behind-hand 
with  his  contributions;  the  peasant  replied,  with 
all  the  openness  of  an  upright  man :  ''  Faith, 
your  Excellency,  it's  not  my  fault.  For  fifteen 
days  now  have  I  taken  my  carabine  every  evening, 
and  have  posted  myself  along  the  highway  to 
see  if  no  one  would  pass.  Never  a  man  goes 
by;  but  I  give  you  my  word  I'll  go  back  there 
until  I  have  scraped  together  the  ducats  I  owe 
you. 

Add  to  this  custom  of  thieving  an  extreme 
bravery!  I  believe  the  country  is  the  cause  of 
one  as  well  as  the  other;  extreme  poverty  re- 
moves timidity  as  well  as  scruples ;  they  are 
leeches  on  the  body  of  others,  but  then  they  are 
equally  prodigal  of  their  own ;  they  can  resist  as 
well  as  take  an  advantage ;  if  they  willingly  take 
another's  goods  they  guard  their  own  yet  more 
willingly.       Liberty    has   thriven     here    from    the 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


141 


earliest  times,  crabbed  and  savage,  home-born  and 
tough  like  a  stem  of  their  own  boxwood.  Hear 
the  tone  of  the  primitive  charter : 

"These  are  the  tribunals  of  Beam,  in  which 
mention  is  made  of  the  fact  that,  in  old  times,  in 
Beam  they  had  no  lord,  and  in  those  days  they 
heard  the  praises  of  a  certain  knight.  They 
sought  him  out,  and  made  him  their  lord  during 
one  year ;  and  after  that,  he  was  unwilling  to  main- 
tain among  them  their  tribunals  and  customs. 
And  the  court  of  Beam  then  came  together  at  Pau, 
and  they  required  of  him  to  maintain  among  them 
their  tribunals  and  customs.  And  he  would  not, 
and  thereupon  they  killed  him  in  full  court." 

In  like  manner  the  land  of  Ossau  preserved  its 
privileges,  even  against  its  viscount.  Every  rob- 
ber who  brought  his  booty  into  the  valley  was  safe 
there,  and  might  the  next  day  present  himself  be- 
fore the  viscount  with  impunity ;  it  was  only  when 
the  latter,  or  his  wife  in  his  absence,  came  into  the 
valley  to  dispense  justice  that  he  was  judged. 
This  scarcely  e\er  happened,  and  the  land  of  Ossau 
was  '*  the  retreat  of  all  the  evil  livers  and  maraud- 
ers "  of  the  country  round. 


142 


THE   VALLE  V  OE  OSSA  U. 


Book  II. 


Lhap  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


»43 


V. 

These   rude   manners,   filled  with   chances  and 
dangers,  produced  as  many  heroes   as   brigands. 
First  comes  the  Count  Gaston,  one  of  the  leaders 
of  the    first   crusade ;  he    was,   like    all    the  great 
men  of  this  country,  an  enterprising  and  a  ready- 
minded  man,  a  man  of  experience  and  one  of  the 
vanguard.     At  Jerusalem  he  went  ahead  to  recon- 
noitre, and  constructed  the  machines  for  the  siege  ; 
he  was  held  to  be   one  of  the  wisest  in    counsel, 
and  was  the  first  to  plant  upon  the  walls  the  cows 
of  Beam.     No  one  struck  a  heavier  blow  or  calcu- 
lated more  exactly,  and  no  one  was  fonder  of  calcu- 
lating   and    striking.     On    his    return,    he    fought 
against  his  neighbors,  twice   besieged  Saragossa, 
and  once  Bayonne,  and,  along  with  king  Alphonso, 
won  two  great  battles  against   the  Moors.     Ah, 
what  a  time  was  that,  for  minds  and  muscles  fram- 
ed for  adventure !    No  need  then  to  seek  for  war  ; 
it  was  found  everywhere,  and  profit  along  with  it. 
Such  a  fine  career  as  those  cavalcades  had  amoncr 
the  marvellous  cities  of  the  Asiatic  Saracens  and  of 
the  Spanish  Moors  !     What  a  quantity  of  skulls  to 
cleave,  of  gold  to  bring  home  !     It  was  thus  that 
the  overflow  of  force  and  imagination  was  discharg- 
ed, that  at  the  same  time  employment  for  the  body 


^ 


\ 


and  safety  for  the  soul  were  found.  Death  ther 
was  no  foolish  affair  of  a  random  shot  or  clumsy 
bullet,  in  the  midst  of  a  well-ordered  manoeuvre. 
Then  one  encountered  all  the  hazards,  the  unfore- 
seen, of  knight-errantry;  the  senses  were  all 
awake  ;  the  arms  wrought  and  the  body  was  a  sol- 
dier ;  Gaston  was  killed  as  a  private  horseman  in 
ambuscade,  with  the  bishop  of  Huesca. 

That  which  pleases  me  in  history  is  the  minor 
circumstances,  the  details  of  character.  A  mere 
scrap  of  a  phrase  indicates  a  revolution  in  the  facul- 
ties and  passions ;  great  events  are  contained  in  it 
at  their  ease,  as  in  their  cause.  Here  in  the  life  of 
Gaston  is  one  of  those  words.  The  day  that  Jeru- 
salem was  taken,  quarter  had  been  granted  to  a 
large  number  of  Mussulmans.  ''  But  the  next  day, 
the  res^,  displeased  at  seeing  that  there  were  any 
infidels  alive,  mounted  upon  the  roofs  of  the  temple, 
and  massacred  and  mangled  all  the  Saracens,  both, 
men  and  women."  *  There  was  neither  reasoning 
nor  deliberation ;  at  the  sight  of  a  Mussulman's 
dress,  their  blood  mounted  in  wrath  to  their  face, 
and  they  sprang  forward,  like  lions  or  butchers, 
struck  them  down  and  dismembered  them.     Lope 


*  The  following  fact  is  from  the  Siege  of  Antioch :  "  Many  of  our  enemies 
died,  and  some  of  the  prisoners  were  led  before  the  gate  of  the  city,  and  there 
ti\eir  heads  were  cut  off,  ia  order  to  discourage  those  who  remained  m  th« 


144 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU,  Book  II- 


de  Vega,  an  antique  Christian,  a  severe  Spaniard, 
renewed  this  savage  and  fanatical  sentiment  : 

Garcia  Tello,  Father,  why  have  you  not  brought 
a  Moor  for  me  to  see  him ! 

The  elder  Tello;  {showing  kirn  the  prisoners.) 
Well,  Garcia,  those  are  Moors. 

Garcia,  What  ?  Those  are  Moors  ?  They  look 
like  men. 

Old  Tello,     And  indeed  they  are  men. 

Garcia.     They  do  not  deserve  to  be. 

Old  Tello.     And  why  ? 

Garcia.  Because  they  believe  neither  in  God 
nor  in  the  Virgin  Mary ;  the  sight  of  them  makes 
my  blood  boil.  Father. 

Old  Tello.     Are  you  afraid  of  them .? 

Garcia.  No  more  than  you.  Father.  {Going 
toward  the  prisoners.)  Dogs,  I  would  tear  you  in 
pieces  with  my  hands ;  you  shall  know  what  it  is  to 
be  a  Christian.  {He  darts  upon  them  and  pursues 
them.) 

Old  Tello.  Ah,  the  good  litde  fellow !  Gracious 
Heaven  !  He  is  fine  as  coral. 

Tello.  Mendo,  see  that  he  does  them  no 
harm. 

Old  Tello.  Let  him  kill  one  or  two;  so  do  they 
teach  a  falcon  to  kill  when  he  is  young. 

In  fact,  they  are  falcons  or  vultures.  In  the  song 
of  Roland,  when  the  doughty  knights  ask  from  Tur- 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


145 


pin  the  absolution  of  their  sins,  the  archbishop  for 
penance  recommends  them  to  strike  well. 

But  at  the  same  time  they  have  the  mind  and  the 
soul  of  children.     '*  Deep  are  the  wells,  and  the 
valleys  dark,  the  rocks  black,  the  defiles  marvellous." 
That  is  their  whole  description  of  the  Pyrenees; 
they  feel  and  speak  in  a  lump.    A  child,  questioned 
about  Paris,  which  he  had  just  seen  for  the  first  time, 
replied:    **  There    are    a  great   many  streets,  and 
carriages  everywhere,  and  great  houses,  and  in  two 
squares  two  tall  columns."     The  poet  of  old  times 
is  like  the  child ;  he  does  not  know  how  to  analyze 
his  impressions.    Like  him,  he  loves  the  marvellous, 
and  takes  delight  in  tales  where  all  the  proportions 
are  gigantic.      In  the  batde  of  Roncevaux  every- 
thing is  aggrandized  beyond  measure.     The  wor- 
thies kill  the  entire  vanguard  of  the  Saracens,  a 
hundred  thousand   men,  and,  afterward,  the   army 
of  King  Marsile,  thirty  battalions,  each  composed  of 
ten  thousand  men.     Roland  winds  his  horn,  and  the 
sound  travels  away  thirty  leagues  to  Charlemagne, 
and  is  echoed  by   his  sixty    thousand    hautboys. 
What  visions  such  words  awakened  in  those  inex- 
perienced brains  !  Then  all  at  once  the  bow  was  un- 
bent ;  the  wounded  Roland  calls  to  mind  *'  men  of 
his  lineage,  of  gentle  France,  of  Charlemagne  his 
lord  who  supports  him,  and  cannot  help  but  weep 
and  sigh  for  them."     At  the  conclusion  of  the  car- 


146 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU, 


Book  IL 


nage  with  which  they  filled  Jerusalem,  the  crusaders, 
weeping  and  chanting,  went  barefoot  to  the  holy- 
sepulchre.  Later,  when  a  number  of  the  barons 
wanted  to  leave  the  crusade  of  Constantinople,  the 
others  went  to  meet  them,  and  entreated  them  on 
their  knees ;  then  all  embraced  each  other,  bursting 
into  sobs.  Robust  children :  that  expresses  the 
whole  truth ;  they  killed  and  howled  as  if  they  were 
beasts  of  prey,  then  when  once  the  fury  was  calmed, 
they  were  all  tears  and  tenderness,  like  a  child  who 
flings  himself  upon  his  brother's  neck,  or  who  is 
going  to  make  his  first  communion. 

VI. 

I  RETURN  to  my  Bearnais ;  they  were  the  most 
active  and  circumspect  of  the  band. 

The  counts  of  Beam  fought  and  treated  with  all 
the  world ;  they  hover  between  the  patronage  of 
France,  Spain  and  England,  and  are  subject  to  no 
one ;  they  pass  from  one  to  the  other  and  always  to 
their  own  advantage,  *'  drawn,"  says  Matthew 
Paris,  **by  pounds  sterling,  or  crowns,  of  which 
they  had  both  great  need  and  great  abundance." 
They  are  always  first  where  fighting  is  to  be  done 
or  money  to  be  gained  ;  they  go  to  be  killed  in 
Spain  or  to  demand  gold  at  Poitiers.  They  are 
calculators  and  adventurers ;  from  imagination  and 


J 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


147 


courage  lovers   of  warfare, —  lovers  of  gain    from 
necessity  and  reflection. 

And  in  this  manner  their  Henry  won  the  crown  of 
France,  thinking  much  of  his  interests  and  little  of  his 
life,  and  always  poor.  After  the  camp  at  La  Fere, 
when  he  was  already  recognized  as  king,  he  wrote : 
*'I  have  only  a  pretence  of  a  horse  on  which  to 
fight,  and  no  entire  armor  that  I  can  put  on ;  my 
shirts  are  in  tatters,  my  pourpoints  out  at  the 
elbows.  My  saucepan  is  many  a  time  upset,  and 
now  these  two  days  I  have  dined  and  supped  with 
one  and  another,  for  my  purveyors  say  that  they 
see  no  way  of  furnishing  my  table  any  longer,  espe- 
cially since  they  have  received  no  money  for 
six  months." 

A  month  later,  at  Fontaine-Fran9aise,  he  charg 
ed  an  army  at  the  head  of  eight  hundred  cavaliers, 
and,  fired  off  his  pistol  by  way  of  sport,  like  a  soldier. 
But  at  the  same  time  this  father  of  his  people 
treated  the  people  in  the  following  manner  :  **  The 
prisons  of  Normandy  were  full  of  prisoners  for  the 
payment  of  the  duty  on  salt.  They  languished 
there  in  such  wise  that  as  many  as  six-score  of 
their  corpses  were  brought  forth  at  one  time.  The 
parliament  of  Rouen  besought  His  Majesty  to  have 
pity  on  his  people  ;  but  the  king,  who  had  been  told 
that  a  great  revenue  was  coming  from  that  tax,  be- 
gan to  say  that  he  was  willing  that  the  said  tax 


148 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OSSAU, 


Book  II, 


should  be  raised,  and  seemed  that  he  would  wish  to 
turn  the  rest  into  mockery." 

A  good  fellow,  no  doubt,  but  a  devil  of  a  good 
fellow ;  we  French  are  fond  of  such ;  they  are  likable, 
but  sometimes  deserve  hanging.  These  had  pru- 
dence into  the  bargain,  and  were  made  to  be«  offi- 
cers of  fortune. 

*'  Gassion,"  says  Tallemant  des  Reaux,  ''was  the 
fourth  of  five  sons.  When  he  had  finished  his 
studies,  he  was  sent  to  the  war ;  but  otherwise  he 
was  but  poorly  furnished.  For  his  sole  horse  his 
father  gave  him  a  docked  pony,  that  might  have 
been  thirty  years  old  ;  its  like  was  not  in  all  Beam, 
and  it  was  called,  as  a  rarity,  Gassions  Bob-tail: 
Apparently  the  young  man  was  scarcely  better  pro- 
vided with  money  than  with  horses.  This  pretty 
courser  left  him  four  or  five  leagues  from  Pau,  but 
that  did  not  prevent  him  from  going  into  Savoy, 
where  he  entered  the  troops  of  the  duke,  for  there 
was  then  no  war  in  France.  But  the  late  king 
having  broken  with  this  prince,  all  Frenchmen  had 
orders  to  quit  his  service  ;  this  forced  our  adven- 
turer to  return  to  the  service  of  the  king. 

"  At  the  taking  of  the  pass  of  Suze,  he  did  so 
well,  although  only  a  simple  cavalier,  that  he  was 
made  cornet ;  but  the  company  in  which  he  was 
cornet  was  broken,  and  he  came  to  Paris  and 
asked  for  the  mantle  of  a  musketeer.     He  was  re- 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


149 


fused  on  account  of  his  religion.  Out  of  spite, 
with  several  other  Frenchmen  he  went  over  to  Ger- 
many, and,  although  in  his  troop  there  were  men 
of  higher  position  than  he,  knowing  how  to  talk 
in  Latin,  he  was  everywhere  received  for  the  chief 
of  the  band.  One  of  these  made  the  advances  for 
a  company  of  light-horse  that  they  were  going  to 
raise  in  France  for  the  king  of  Sweden ;  he  was 
lieutenant  of  it ;  his  captain  was  killed,  and  now  he 
is  himself  a  captain.  He  soon  made  himself 
known  as  a  man  of  spirit,  so  that  he  obtained  from 
the  king  of  Sweden  the  privilege  of  receiving  or- 
ders only  from  His  Majesty  in  persor  ;  this  was  on 
condition  of  marching  always  at  the  head  of  the 
army  and  of  filling  in  a  measure  the  position  of  for- 
lorn hope.  While  thus  employed,  he  received  a 
frightful  pistol-shot  in  the  right  side,  the  wound 
of  which  has  since  opened  several  times,  now  to  the 
peril  of  his  life,  and  now  the  opening  answering  as 
a  crisis  in  other  illnesses." 

He  was  a  thorough  soldier,  and  above  all  a  lover 
of  valor.  A  rebel  peasant,  at  Avranches,  fought 
admirably  before  a  barricade,  and  killed  the  Mar- 
quis de  Courtaumer,  whom  he  took  for  Gassion. 
Gassion  had  search  made  everywhere  for  this  gal- 
lant man,  in  order  that  he  might  be  pardoned  and 
to  put  him  in  his  regiment.  The  Chancellor  Se- 
guier  took  the  affair  like  a  lawyer ;  some  time  after, 


I50 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U, 


Book  IL 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS. 


I5J 


having  seized  the  peasant,  he  had  him  broken  on 
the  wheel. 

He  treated  civil  affairs  just  as  he  did  military 
ones.  He  sent  word  to  a  merchant  in  Paris  who 
had  become  bankrupt,  owing  him  ten  thousand 
livres,  **  that  it  would  not  be  possible  for  him  to  let 
remain  in  the  world  a  man  who  was  carrying  away 
his  property."     He  was  paid. 

'*  He  led  men  into  war  admirably.  I  have  heard 
related  an  action  of  his,  very  bold  and  at  the  same 
time  very  sensible ;  before  he  was  major-general, 
he  asked  several  noblemen  if  they  wished  to  join 
his  party.  They  went  with  him.  After  having 
gone  about  the  whole  morning  without  finding 
anything,  he  said  to  them  :  *  We  are  too  strong ; 
the  parties  all  fly  before  us.  Let  us  leave  here 
our  horsemen,  and  go  away  alone.*  The  vol- 
unteers followed  him;  they  went  on  until  they 
were  near  to  Saint-Omer.  Just  then  two  squa- 
drons of  cavalry  suddenly  appeared  and  cut  off 
their  way ;  for  Saint-Omer  was  behind  our  people. 
'  Messieurs,'  said  he  to  them,  *  we  must  pass  or 
die.  Put  yourselves  all  abreast ;  ride  full  speed  at 
them  and  don't  fire.  The  first  squadron  will  be 
afraid,  when  they  see  that  you  mean  to  fire  only 
into  their  teeth  ;  they  will  rein  back  and  overthrow 
the  others.'  It  happened  just  as  he  had  said. 
our    noblemen,    well    mounted,    forced    the    two 


< 


\ 


\ 


squadrons   and    saved    themselves,    almost    to   a 

man. 

**  Another,  also  very  daring;  which,  however, 
seems  to  me  a  little  rash.  Having  received  notice 
that  the  Croats  were  leading  away  the  horses  of 
the  Prince  d'Enrichemont,  he  wanted  to  charge 
upon  them,  accompanied  by  only  a  few  of  his 
horsemen,  and,  as  there  happened  to  be  a  great 
ditch  between  him  and  the  enemy,  he  swam 
across  it  on  his  horse,  without  looking  to  see  if 
any  one  followed  him,  so  that  he  encountered  the 
enemy  alone,  killed  five  of  them,  put  the  rest 
to  flight,  and  returned  with  three  of  our  men 
whom  they  had  taken,  and  who  perhaps  helped 
him    in    the    struggle.       He    led    back    all    the 

horses." 

The  quondam  light-horseman  reappeared  beneath 

the  general's  uniform.  Thus  he  always  remained 
the  comrade  of  his  soldiers.  When  any  one  had 
off'ended  the  least  of  his  cavalrymen,  he  took  the 
man  with  him  and  had  satisfaction   given  in  one 

way  or  another. 

'*  La  Vieuxville,  since  superintendent,  intrusted 
to  him  his  eldest  son  to  learn  the  trade  of  war. 
The  young  man  treated  Gassion  magnificently  at 
the  army.  '  You  are  trifling  with  yourself,  Mou 
sieur  le  Marquis,'  said  he :  'of  what  use  are  all 
these  dainties?      'S  death!    we    only   want    good 


152 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSS  A  U. 


Book  II. 


Chap.  VI. 


THE  INHABITANTS, 


153 


bread,  good  wine  and  good  forage/  He  thought 
of  his  horse  as  much  as  of  himself" 

He  was  a  poor  courtier  and  troubled  himself 
little  about  ceremonies.  One  day  he  went  to  the 
communion  before  the  prince  palatine,  and  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday,  having  found  his  place  taken,  he 
would  never  allow  that  a  nobleman  should  give  it 
up,  and  went  to  seek  a  place  somewhere  else. 
Nevertheless  he  was  scarcely  courtly  towards 
ladies,  and  on  this  point  not  at  all  worthy  of 
Henry  IV. 

**  At  court,  many  young  ladies,  who  were  pleased 
with  him,  were  wheedling  him,  and  said  :  '  Of  a 
truth,  monsieur,  you  have  performed  the  finest  pos- 
sible deeds.* —  *  That's  a  matter  of  course,*  said  he. 
When  one  lady  said  :  '  I  should  be  glad  to  have  a 
husband  like  M.  de  Gassion.* — *  I  have  no  doubt 
of  it,*  answered  he. 

*'  He  said  of  Mile,  de  Segur,  who  was  old  and 
ugly  :  '  She  pleases  me,  that  young  woman  there  ; 
she  looks  like  a  Croat.' 

"  When  Bougis,  his  lieutenant  de  gendarmes y 
stayed  too  long  in  Paris  in  the  winter-time,  he 
wrote  to  him :  *  You  are  amusing  yourself  with 
those  women,  and  you  will  die  like  a  dog;  here 
you  would  find  fine  chances.  What  the  devil  do 
you  find  in  the  way  of  pleasure  in  going  to 
court  and  making  love  !     That  is  pretty  business 


/ 


in  comparison  with  the  pleasure  of  taking  a  quar- 
ter !  * " 

His  brother,  Bergere,  seems  to  have  had  little 
taste  for  this  pleasure.  Gassion,  then  a  col- 
onel, on  one  occasion  ordered  him  to  charge  at 
the  head  of  fifty  cavaliers,  and  declared  that  if 
he  gave  way  he  would  run  him  through  the  body 
with  his  sword.  An  admirable  method  for  forming 
men  !  Bergere  found  his  account  in  it,  and  after- 
wards went  into  action  like  any  other  man. 

The  two  adventurers  had  a  thoroughly  military 
ending.  Their  brother  the  president,  for  econo- 
my's sake,  had  Bergere  embalmed  by  a  valet  de 
chambre  who  mangled  him  shockingly.  As  for 
Gassion,  he  awaited  burial  during  three  months. 
"The  president,  tired  of  paying  for  the  funeral 
hangings,  had  them  returned,  and  others  put  up 
which  cost  him  ten  sols  less  a  day.  At  last  he  had 
a  small  vault  constructed  between  two  gates  in 
the  old  cemetery ;  he  had  them  interred  one  day 
when  there  was  a  sermon  without  any  solemnity 
whatever,  and  so  that  no  one  could  say  that  he  had 
gone  there  on  their  account."  Three  out  of  four 
heroes  have  been  similarly  buried,  like  dogs. 

The  last  of  the  race  of  d'Artagnan,  those  heroic 
hunters  after  paying  adventures,  was  born  at  Pau,' 
rue  du  Tran,  No.  6.*     A  drummer  in  1792,  he  was 

*  According  to  an  inscriptiou.     It  is  said  to  be  false. 


i 


"f- 


i 


154 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  OSSA  U, 


Book  II. 


in  1 8 10  prince  royal  of  Sweden.  He  had  made  his 
way,  and  along  it  he  had  lost  his  prejudices.  Like 
Henry  IV.,  he  found  that  a  kingdom  was  worth 
quite  as  much  as  a  mass ;  he  too  made  the  peril- 
ous leap,  but  in  a  contrary  direction,  and  laid 
aside  his  religion  like  an  old  cassock ;  a  question 
of  old  clothes:  a  brand-new  royal  mantle  was 
worth  far  more. 


i- 


if' 


(/ 


I 


BOOK  III. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


CHAPTER  I. 


1 


i 


] 


ON  THE  WA  y  TO  LUZ, 


L 


The  carriage  leaves  Eaux-Bonnes  at  dawn.  The 
sun  is  scarcely  yet  risen,  and  is  still  hidden  by  the 
mountains.  Pale  rays  begin  to  color  the  mosses 
on  the  western  declivity.  These  mosses,  bathed 
in  dew,  seem  as  if  awakening  under  the  first  caress 
of  the  day.  Rosy  hues,  of  an  inexpressible  softness, 
rest  on  the  summits,  then  steal  down  along  the 
slopes.  One  could  never  have  believed  that  these 
gaunt  old  creatures  were  capable  of  an  expression 
so  timid  and  so  tender.  The  light  broadens,  heaven 
expands,  the  air  is  filled  with  joy  and  life.  A  bald 
peak  in  the  midst  of  the  rest,  and  darker  than  they, 
stands  out  in  an  aureole  of  flame.  All  at  once, 
between  two  serrate  points,  like  a  dazzling  arrow, 
streams  the  first  ray  of  the  sun. 


II. 

Beyond  Pau  stretches  a  smiling  country,  golden 
with  harvests,  amongst  which  the  Gave  winds  its 
blue  folds  between  white  and  pebbly  beaches.     On 


I5& 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  III. 


Chap.  I. 


ON  THE   WAY  TO  LUZ, 


159 


the  right,  far  away  in  a  veil  of  luminous  mist,  the 
Pyrenees  lift  their  jagged  tops,  and  the  naked  points 
of  their  black  rocks.  Their  flanks,  furrowed  by  the 
torrents  of  winter,  are  deeply  scored  and,  as  it  were, 
turned  up  with  an  iron  rake.  The  picturesque 
country  and  the  great  mountains  are  seen  to  disclose 
themselves ;  the  fences  of  the  fields  are  of  small 
rounded  stones,  in  whose  fissures  abound  waving 
grasses,  pretty  heaths,  tufts  of  yellow  sedum,  and 
above  all  tiny  pink  geraniums,  that  shine  in  the  sun 
like  clusters  of  rubies.  You  are  quite  ready  to  seek 
for  nymphs ;  we  come  across  six  in  an  orchard,  not 
actually  dancing,  but  dirty.  They  are  eating  bread 
and  cheese,  squatted  on  their  heels,  and  stare  at  us 
with  half-open  mouth. 

III. 

CoARRAZE  Still  preserves  a  tower  and  gateway, 
the  remains  of  a  castle.  This  castle  has  its  legend, 
which  Froissart  recounts  in  a  style  so  flowing  and 
agreeable,  so  minute  and  expressive,  that  I  cannot 
refrain  from  quoting  it  at  length. 

The  Lord  of  Coarraze  had  a  dispute  with  a  clerk, 
and  the  clerk  left  him  with  threats.  ''About  three 
months  after,  when  the  knight  least  thought  of  it, 
and  was  sleeping  in  his  bed  with  his  lady,  in  his 
castle  of  Corasse,  there  came  invisible  messengers, 


r 


/i 


I 


who  made  such  a  noise,  knocking  about  everything 
they  met  with  in  the  castie,  as  if  they  were  deter- 
mined to  destroy  all  within  it :   and  they  gave  such 
loud  raps  at  the  door  of  the  chamber  of  the  knight, 
that  the  lady  was    exceedingly   frightened.      The 
knight  heard  it  all,  but  did  not  say  a  word,  as  he 
would  not  have  it  appear  that  he  was  alarmed,  for 
he  was  a  man  of    sufficient  courage  for  any   ad- 
venture.    These  noises  and   tumults  continued,  in 
different  parts  of  the  castle,  for  a  considerable  time, 
and  then  ceased.     On  the  morrow,  all  the  servants 
of  the  household    assembled,   and   went    to  their 
lord,  and  said,  '  My  lord,  did  you  not  hear  what  we 
all  heard  this  night  ? '    The  Lord  de   Corasse  dis- 
sembled, and  replied,  '  What  is  it  you  have  heard  ? ' 
They  then  related  to  him  all  the  noises  and  rioting 
they  had  heard,  and  that  the  plates  in  the  kitchen 
had  been  broken.     He  began  to  laugh,  and  said, 
'  It  was  nothing,  that  they  had  dreamed  it,  or  that  it 
had  been  the  wind.'     *  In  the  name  of  God,'  added 
the  lady,  *  I  well  heard  it.' 

*'  On  the  following  night  the  noises  and  rioting 
were  renewed,  but  much  louder  than  before,  and 
there  were  such  blows  struck  against  the  door  and 
windows  of  the  chamber  of  the  knight,  that  it 
seemed  they  would  break  them  down.  The  knight 
could  no  longer  desist  from  leaping  out  of  his  bed, 
and  calling  out,  '  Who  is  it  that  at  this  hour  thus 


i 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ.  Book  III.' 


^ 


i6o 

knocks  at  my  ch^^^C^^^^^^^^^~^^^^'  ^"^t^'^^^y 
answered,  '  It  is  L'     '  And  who  sends  thee  hither  ? 
asked  the  knight.     '  The  clerk  of  Catalonia,  whom 
thou  hast  much  wronged ;  for  thou  hast  deprived 
him  of  the  rights  of  his  benefice ;  I  will,  therefore 
never  leave   thee  quiet,  until   thou  hast  rendered 
him  a  just  account,  with  which  he  shall  be  content- 
ed'—' What    art  thou    called,'    said   the    kmght, 
•who   art  so  good  a  messenger? '-' My  name  is 
Orthon.'-' Orthon,'   said   the  knight,  'serving  a 
clerk  will  not  be  of  much  advantage  to  thee ;  for 
if  thou  believest    him    he   will   give    thee    great 
trouble :  I  beg  thou  wilt  therefore  leave  him  and 
serve  me,  and  I  shall  think  myself  obliged  to  thee.' 
Orthon  was   ready   with  his  answer,    for  he   had 
taken  a  liking  to  the  knight,  and    said,  '  Do  you 
wish  it?'—'  Yes.'  replied  the  knight;  'but  no  harm 
must  be  done  to  any  one  within  these  walls.'—'  Oh, 
no,'  answered  Orthon ;    '  I  have  no  power  to  do  ill 
to  any  one,  only  to  awaken  thee  and  disturb  thy 
rest,  or  that   of  other  persons.'—'  Do  what  I  tell 
thee,'  added  the  knight,  '  we  shall  well  agree,  and 
leave  this  wicked  priest,  for  he  is  a  worthless  fel- 
low, and  serve  me.'-'  Well,'  replied  Orthon,  '  since 
thou  wilt  have  it  so,  I  consent.' 

"  Orthon  took  such  an  affection  to  the  Lord  de 
Corasse,  that  he  came  often  to  see  him  in  the 
night-time,  and  when  he  found  him  sleeping,  he 


( 


ON  THE  WA  Y  TO  LUZ. 


i6i 


\ 


.,{1 


Chap.  I.  _^_^ 

pulled  his  pillow  from  under  his   head,    or  made 
areat  noises  at  the  door  or  windows ;  so  that  when 
the  knight  was  awakened,  he  said,  '  Orthon.  let  me 
sleep  '— '  I  will  not,'  replied  he,  '  until  I  have  told 
thee  some  news.'     The  knight's  lady  was  so  much 
fricrhtened,  the  hairs  of  her  head  stood  on  end,  and 
she    hid  herself   under  the  bed-clothes.      '  Well, 
said   the    knight,     'and    what    news     hast    thou 
brought  me  ?  '     Orthon  replied,  '  I  am  come  from 
England,  Hungary,  or  some  other  place,  which  I 
left  yesterday,  and  such  and  such  things  have  hap- 
pened.'    Thus  did  the  Lord  de  Corasse  know  by 
means  of  Orthon  all  things  that  were  passing  in 
different  parts  of  the  world ;  and  this  connection 
continued  for  five  years ;   but  he  could  not  keep 
it  to  himself,  and  discovered  it  to   the  Count  de 
Foix,  in  the  manner  I  will  tell  you.     The  first  year, 
the  Lord  de  Corasse  came  to  the  Count  de  Foix. 
at  Orthes.  or  elsewhere,  and  told  him,  '  My  lord, 
such  an  event  has  happened  in  England,  in  Scot- 
land,   Germany,  or  some  other  country.'    and  the 
Count  de  Foix,  who  found  all  this  intelligence  prove 
true,  marvelled  gready  how    he   could   have   ac- 
quired such  early  information,  and  entreated  him 
so  earnestly,  that  the  Lord  de  Corasse  told  hnn 
■   the  means  by  which  he  had  acquired  his  intelli- 
gence,   and    the   manner    of   its    communication 
When  the  Count  de  Foix  heard  this,  he  was  much 


j63  the  valley  of  LUZ.  BookIIL 

pleased,  and  said.  '  Lord  de  Corasse,  nourish  the 
iove  of  your   intelligencer.      I  wish  I  had  such  a 
messenger ;  he  costs  you  nothing,    and  you    are 
truly  informed  of    everything  that  passes  m   the 
world.'-'  My  lord,'  replied  the  knight.  '  I  will  do 
so  '      The  Lord  de  Corasse  was  served  by  Orthon 
for  a  long  time.     I  am  ignorant  if  Orthon  had  more 
than  one  master;  but  two  or  three    times   every 
week  he  visited  the  knight  and  told  him  all  the 
news  of  the  countries  he  had  frequented,  which  he 
wrote  immediately  to  the  Count  de  Foix.  who  was 
much  delighted  therewith,  as  there  is  not  a  lord  m 
the  world  more    eager  after    news   from    foreign 
parts  than  he  is.     Once,  when  the  Lord  de  Corasse 
was  in  conversation  on  this  subject  with  the  Count 
de  Foix.  the  Count  said,  '  Lord  de  Corasse,  have 
you  never  yet  seen  your  messenger  ?  '— '  No,  by 
my  faith,  never,  nor  have  I  ever  pressed  him  on 
this  matter.'-'  I  wonder  at  that,'  replied  the  count 
.  for  had  he  been  so  much  attached  to  me,  I  should 
have  begged  of  him  to  have  shown  himself  in  his 
own  proper  form ;  and  I  entreat  you  will  do  so.  that 
you  may  tell  how  he  is  made,  and  what  he  is  like. 
You  have  said  that  he  speaks  Gascon  as  well  as 
y^^  or  I  do.'-'  By  my  faith,'  said  the  Lord  de  Co- 
rasse  •  he  converses  just  as  well  and  as  properly, 
and.  since  you  request  it.  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  see 
him/ 


I 


Chap.  I. 


ON  THE  WA  Y  TO  LUZ. 


163 


\ 


'^  It  fell  out  when  the  Lord  de  Corasse,  as  usual, 
was  in  bed  with  his  lady  (who  was  now  accustom- 
ed  to   hear    Orthon   without    being    frightened), 
Orthon  arrived  and  shook  the  pillow  of  the  knight, 
who  was  asleep.     On  waking,  he  asked  who  was 
there.     Orthon  replied,    'It    is    I.*—' And    where 
dost  thou  come  from?'— 'I  come  from  Prague,  in 
Bohemia. —*  How  far  is  it  hence  ?  — '  Sixty  days 
journey,'  replied  Orthon.     'And  hast  thou  return- 
ed thence  in  so  short  a  time  ? '— '  Yes,  as  may  God 
help  me:  I  travel  as  fast  as  the  wind,  or  faster.' 
'What,     hast      thou      got     wings?'— 'Oh,     no.' 
'How,  then,   canst   thou  fly  so  fast?'— 'That    is 
no    business    of  yours.'— '  No  ! '  said  the    knight 
'  I  should  like  exceedingly  to  see  what  form  thou 
hast,  and   how  thou  art   made.'—'  That  does  not 
concern  you  to  know,'  replied  Orthon ;   '  be  satis- 
fied that  you  hear  me,  and  that  I  bring  you  intelli- 
gence you  may  depend  on.'—'  By  God,'  said  the 
Lord  de  Corasse, '  I  should  love  thee  better  if  I  had 
seen   thee.'— '  Well,'  replied   Orthon,    'since   you 
have  such  a  desire,  the  first  thing  you  shall  see  to- 
morrow morning,  in  quitting  your  bed,  shall  be  my- 
self.'—' I  am  satisfied,'  said  the  knight ;  '  you  may 
now  depart ;  I  give  thee  thy  liberty  for  this  night.' 

"When  morning  came,  the  knight  arose,  but 
his  lady  was  so  much  frightened  she  pretended  to 
be  sick,  and  said  she  would  not  leave  her  bed  the 


164 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  I.  ON  THE  WA  Y  TO  LUZ, 


165 


whole  day.     The  Lord  de  Corasse  willed  it  other- 
wise.    '  Sir/  said  she,  *  if  I  do  get  up,  I  shall  see 
Orthon ;    and,  if  it  please  God,   I  would    neither 
see  nor   meet    him.*— *  Well,'   replied    the    knight. 
*  I  am  determined  to  see  him ; '  and  leaping  out  of 
his  bed,  he  seated  himself  on  the  bedstead,  thinking 
he  should  see   Orthon  in  his  own  shape ;  but  he 
saw  nothing  that  could  induce  him  to  say  he  had 
seen  him.     When  the  ensuing  night  arrived,  and 
the  Lord  de  Corasse  was  in  bed,  Orthon  came  and 
began  to  talk  in  his  usual  manner.     *  Go,'  said  the 
knight ;  '  thou  art  a  liar.     Thou  oughtest  to  have 
shown  thyself  to  me  this  morning,  and  hast  not 
done   so.'— 'NoT  replied  Orthon;  'but  I  have.' 
—'I  say,  no.'— 'And  did  you  see  nothing  at   all 
when  you  leaped  out  of  bed  ?  '     The  Lord  de  Co- 
rasse was    silent,   and,  having   considered   awhile, 
said,    'Yes;    when    sitting    on    my   bedside,    and 
thinking  of  thee,    I   saw  two    straws  which  were 
turning  and  playing  together  on  the  floor.' — '  That 
was  myself,'  replied  Orthon,  '  for  I   had  taken  that 
form.'     The  Lord  de  Corasse  said,  '  That  will  not 
satisfy  me ;  I  beg  of  thee  to  assume  some  other 
shape,  so  that   I  may  see  thee  and   know  thee.' 
Orthon  answered,  '  You  ask  so  much  that  you  will 
ruin  me  and  force  me  away  from  you,  for  your  re- 
quests are  too  great.' — 'You  shall   not  quit  me/ 
said  the  Lord  de  Corasse ;  '  if  I  had  once  seen  thee, 


/ 


I    should    not     again    wish    it.'-' Well.'    replied 
Orthon,  '  you  shall  see  me  to-morrow,  if  you  pay 
attention  to  the  first  thing  you  observe  when  you 
leave  your  chamber.'—'  I  am  contented,'  said  the 
knight ;  '  now   go  thy  ways,  for  I  want  to  sleep.' 
Orthon  departed.     On  the  morrow,  about  the  hour 
of  eight,  the  knight  had  risen  and  was  dressed ; 
on  leaving  his  apartment,  he  went   to  a  window 
which  looked  into  the  court  of  the  castle.     Casting 
his  eyes  about,  the  first  thing  he  observed  was  an 
immensely  large  sow,  but  she  was  so  poor,   she 
seemed  only   skin    and    bone,   with  long    hang- 
ing   ears    all    spotted,   and  a  sharp-pointed,  lean 
snout.     The  Lord  de  Corasse  was  disgusted  at  such 
a  sight,  and,  calling  to  his  servants,  said,  '  Let  the 
do-s  loose  quickly,  for  I  will  have  that  sow  killed 
and   devoured.'     The   servants  hastened   to  open 
the  kennel,  and  to  set  the  hounds  on  the  sow,  who 
uttered  a  loud  cry  and  looked  up  at  the  Lord  de 
Corasse,  leaning  on  the  balcony  of  his  window,  and 
was  never  seen  afterwards ;  for  she  vanished,  and 
no  one  ever  knew  what  became  of  her. 

'<  The  knight  returned  quite  pensive  to  his  cham- 
ber, for  he  then  recollected  what  Orthon  had  told 
him,  and  said :  '  I  believe  I  have  seen  my  messen- 
ger Orthon,  and  repent  having  set  my  hounds  on 
him,  for  perhaps  I  may  never  see  him  more :  he 
frequently  told  me,  that  if  I  ever  angered  him,  I 


1^6 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  IIL 


should  lose  him/  He  kept  his  word  ;  for  never  did 
he  return  to  the  hotel  de  Corasse,  and  the  knight 
died  the  following  year." 

This  Orthon,  the  familiar  spirits,  queen  Mab, 
are  the  poor  little  popular  gods,  children  of  the 
pool  and  the  oak,  engendered  by  the  melancholy 
and  awe-struck  reveries  of  the  spinning  maiden  and 
the  peasant.  A  great  state  religion  then  over- 
shadowed all  thoughts ;  doctrine  ready-made  was 
imposed  upon  them  ;  men  could  no  longer,  as  in 
Greece  or  Scandinavia,  build  the  great  poem 
which  suited  their  manners  and  mind.  They  re- 
ceived it  from  above,  and  repeated  the  litany  Avith 
docility,  yet  not  very  well  understanding  it.  Their 
invention  produced  only  legends  of  saints  or 
churchyard  superstitions.  Since  they  could  not 
reach  God,  they  struck  out  for  themselves  goblins, 
hermits  and  gnomes,  and  by  these  simple  and  fan- 
tastic figures  they  expressed  their  rustic  life  or 
their  vague  terrors.  This  Orthon,  who  storms  at 
the  door  in  the  night  and  breaks  the  dishes,  is  he 
anything  more  than  the  night-mare  of  a  half-wak- 
ened man,  anxiously  listening  to  the  rustling  of  the 
wind  that  fumbles  at  the  doors,  and  the  sudden 
noises  of  the  night  magnified  by  silence  !  The 
child  in  his  bed  suffers  similar  fears  when  he  covers 
eyes  and  ears  that  he  may  not  see  the  strange 
shadow  of  the  wardrobe,  or  hear  the  stifled  cries  of 


Chap.  I. 


ON  THE   WA  Y  TO  LUZ, 


i 


167 


the  thatch  on  the  roof.  The  two  straws  that  play 
convulsively  on  the  floor,  twined  together  like 
twins,  and  shine  with  mysterious  brilliancy  in  the 
pale  sunlight,  leave  a  vague  uneasiness  in  the  disor- 
dered brain.  In  this  way  is  born  the  race  of  famil- 
iars and  fairies,  nimble  creatures,  swift  travellers, 
as  capricious  and  sudden  as  a  dream,  who  amuse 
themselves  maliciously  in  sticking  together  the 
manes  of  the  horses,  or  in  souring  the  milk,  yet 
sometimes  become  tender  and  domesticated,  at- 
tached like  the  cricket  to  its  hearthstone,  and  are 
the  penates  of  the  country  and  the  farm,  in- 
visible and  powerful  as  gods,  quaint  and  odd  as 
children.  Thus  all  the  legends  preserve  and  set 
off  vanished  ways  and  sentiments,  like  to  those 
mineral  forces  which,  deep  down  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains,  transform  charcoal  and  stones  into  mar- 
ble and  the  diamond. 


k> 


IV. 

We  no  sooner  reach  Lestelle,  than  we  are  as- 
sured on  all  sides  that  we  must  visit  the  chapel. 
We  pass  between  rows  of  shops  full  of  rosaries, 
basins  for  holy- water,  medals,  small  crucifixes, 
thi  ough  a  cross-fire  of  offers,  exhortations  and  cries. 
After  which  we  are  free  to  admire  the  edifice,  a 
liberty  which  we  are  careful  not  to  abuse.  On  the 
portal,   indeed,  there  is  a  pretty  enough  virgin  in 


i68 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  I. 


ON  THE  WA  Y  TO  LUZ. 


169 


the  style  of  the  seventeenth  century,  four  evange- 
lists in  marble,  and  in  the  interior  several  tolerable 
pictures;  but  the  blue  dome  starred  with  gold 
looks  like  a  bonbonniere,  the  walls  are  disgraced 
with  engravings  from  the  rue  Saint-Jacques,  the 
altar  is  loaded  with  gewgaws.  The  gilded  den  is 
pretentious  and  gloomy ;  for  such  a  beautiful  coun- 
try the  good  God  seems  but  ill  harbored. 

The  poor  litde  chapel  nestles  close  to  a  huge 
mountain  wooded  with  crowded  green  thickets, 
which  stretches  out  superbly  in  the  light,  and 
warms  its  belly  in  the  sun.  The  highway  is 
abrupdy  checked,  makes  a  curve  and  crosses  the 
Gave.  The  pretty  bridge  of  a  single  arch  rests 
its  feet  upon  the  naked  rock  and  trails  its  ivy  dra- 
pery in  the  blue-green  eddies  of  the  stream.  We 
ascend  beautiful  wooded  hills  w^here  the  cows  are 
grazing,  and  whose  rounded  slopes  dip  gendy 
down  to  the  river's  brink.  We  are  nearing  Saint 
Pe,  on  the  confines  of  Bigorre  and  Beam. 

Saint-Pe  contains  a  curious  Roman  church  with 
sculptured  doorway.  A  luminous  dust  was  danc- 
ing in  its  warm  shadows ;  the  eyes  penetrated  with 
pleasure  into  the  depths  of  the  background ;  its  re- 
liefs seemed  to  swim  in  a  living  blackness.  All  at 
once  comes  a  clatter  of  cracking  whips,  of  rolling 
and  grinding  wheels,  of  hoofs  that  strike  fire  from 
the  pavement;    then  the  endless  hedge  of  white 


( 


walls  running  away  to  the  right  and  the  left,  fleck- 
ed with  glaring  lights  ;  then  the  sudden  opening  of 
the  heavens  and  the  triumph  of  the  sun,  whose  fur- 
nace blazes  in  the  remotest  depths  of  the  air. 

V. 

Near  Lourdes,  the  hills  became  bald  and  the 
landscape  sad.  Lourdes  is  only  a  mass  of  dull, 
lead-colored  roofs,  heaped  up  below  the  highway. 
The  two  small  towers  of  the  fort  outline  their  slen- 
der forms  against  the  sky.  A  single  enormous, 
blackish  rock  lifts  its  back,  corroded  by  mosses, 
above  the  enclosure  of  a  slight  wall  that  winds  to 
shut  it  in,  and  suggests  an  elephant  in  a  boarded 
shed.  The  neighborhood  of  the  mountains  dwarfs 
all  human  constructions. 

Heavy  clouds  rose  in  the  sky,  and  the  dull  hori- 
zon became  encased  between  two  rows  of  moun- 
tains, gaunt,  patched  with  scant  brushwood,  cleft  in 
ravines ;  a  pale  light  fell  on  the  mutilated  summits 
and  into  the  gray  crevices.  Bands  of  beggars,  in 
relays,  hooked  themselves  on  to  the  carriage  with 
hoarse  inarticulate  noises,  with  idiotic  air,  wry 
necks,  and  deformed  bodies  ;  the  projecting  sinews 
swelled  the  wrinkled  skin,  and,  peeping  through 
the  rags  and  tatters,  was  seen  the  flesh,  in  color 
like  a  burned  brick. 


i7o 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  I. 


ON  THE   WA  Y  TO  LUZ, 


171 


We   entered    the    gorge   of    Pierrefitte.      The 
clouds    had    spread,    and    darkened     the    whole 
heaven  ;    the  wind  swept  along  in  sudden  gusts 
and  whipped  the  dust  into  whirlwinds.     The  car- 
riage rolled  on  between  two  immense  walls  of  dark 
rocks,  slashed  and  notched  as  if  by  the  axe  of  an 
infuriate  giant ;  rugged  furrows,  seamed  with  yawn- 
ing gashes,  reddish  wounds,  torn  and   crossed  by 
pallid  wounds,  scar  upon   scar ;    the  perpendicular 
flank  still  bleeds  from  multiplied  blows.     Half-de- 
tached, bluish  masses  hung  in  sharp  points  over 
our  heads ;    a  thousand  feet  higher  up,  layers  of 
blocks  leaned  forward,  overhanging  the  way.     At 
a  prodigious  height,  the  black,  battlemented  sum- 
mits   pierced    tlie  vapors,  while,  with  every  step 
forward,  it  seemed  as  if  the  narrow  passage  were 
coming  to  an  end.     The  darkness  was  growing, 
and,  under  that  livid  light  with  its  threatening  re- 
flexes, it  seemed  that  those  beetling  monsters  were 
shaking  and  would  soon  engulf  everything.     The 
trees,  beaten  against  the  rock,  were  bending  and 
twisting.     The  wind  complained  with  a  long-drawn 
piercing    moan,  and    beneath  its  mournful  sound, 
the  hoarse  rumbling  of  the  Gave  was  heard  as  it 
dashed  madly  against  the  rocks  it  could  not  sub- 
due, and  moaned  sadly  like  a  stricken  soul  that  re- 
bels   against    the    torments    it    is    powerless    to 
escape. 


T 


The  rain  came  and  covered  all  objects  with  its 
blinding  veil.  An  hour  later,  the  drained  clouds 
were  creeping  along  half  way  up  the  height ;  the 
dripping  rocks  shone  through  a  dark  varnish,  like 
blocks  of  polished  mahogany.  Turbid  water  went 
boiling  down  the  swollen  cascades ;  the  depths  of 
the  gorge  were  still  darkened  by  the  storm  ;  but  a 
tender  light  played  over  the  wet  summits,  like  a 
smile  bathed  in  tears.  The  gorge  opened  up  ;  the 
arches  of  the  marble  bridges  sprang  lighdy  into  the 
limpid  air,  and,  sheeted  in  light,  Luz  was  seen  seat- 
ed among  sparkling  meadows  and  fields  of  millet  in 
full  bloom. 


I 


Chap.  II. 


LUZ. 


173 


CHAPTER  11. 


LUZ, 


I. 

Luz  is  a  little  city,  thoroughly  rustic  and  agree- 
able. Streams  of  water  run  down  the  narrow, 
flinty  streets;  the  gray  houses  press  together  for 
the  sake  of  gaining  a  little  shade.  The  morning 
sees  the  arrival  of  flocks  of  sheep,  of  asses  laden 
with  wood,  of  grunting  and  undisciplined  hogs,  and 
bare-footed  peasant  girls,  knitting  as  they  walk 
alongside  of  their  carts.  Luz  is  in  a  spot  where 
four  valleys  come  together.  Men  and  beasts  disap- 
pear on  the  market-place ;  red  umbrellas  are  fixed 
in  the  ground.  The  women  seat  themselves  along- 
side their  wares ;  around  them  their  red-cheeked 
brats  are  nibbling  their  bread,  and  frisking  like  so 
many  mice;  provisions  are  sold,  stuffs  are  bought. 
At  noon  the  streets  are  deserted ;  here  and  there 
in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  may  be  discerned  the 
figure  of  an  old  woman  sitting,  but  no  sound  is 
heard  save  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  streams  along 
their  stony  bed. 

The  faces  here  are  pretty :  the  children  are  a 
pleasure  to  look  upon,  before  toil  and  the  sun  have 


I 


spoiled  their  features.  They  amble  merrily 
through  the  dust,  and  turn  toward  the  passer  their 
bright  round  faces,  their  speaking  eyes,  with  slight 
and  abrupt  movements.  When  the  girls,  with  their 
red  petticoats  tucked  up,  and  in  capulets  of  thick 
red  stuff",  approach  to  ask  alms  of  you,  you  see 
under  the  crude  color  the  pure  oval  of  a  clear-cut, 
proud  countenance,  a  soft,  almost  pale  hue,  and  the 
sweet  look  of  two  great  tranquil  eyes. 

II. 

The  church  is  cool  and  solitary ;  it  once  belong 
ed  to  the  Templars.  These  monk-soldiers  obtained 
a  foothold  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  corners 
of  Europe.  The  tower  is  square  as  a  fortress  ;  the 
enclosing  wall  has  battlements  like  a  fortified  city. 
The  dark  old  door-way  would  be  easily  defended. 
Upon  its  arch,  which  is  very  low,  may  be  distin- 
guished a  half-obliterated  Christ,  and  two  fantastic, 
rudely  colored  birds.  As  you  enter,  a  small  un- 
covered tomb  serves  as  font,  and  you  are  shown  a 
low  door  through  which  passed  the  accursed  race  of 
the  bigots*  Its  first  aspect  is  singular,  but  has  noth- 
ing unpleasant  about  it.  A  good  woman  in  a  red 
capulet,  knitting  in  hand,  was  praying  near  a  confes- 

*  Name  applied  among  the  Pyrenees  to  a  people  afflicted  with  Cretinism. 
—^Translator. 


174 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  III. 


sional  of  badly  planed  boards,  under  an  old  brown 
gallery  of  turned  wood.  Poverty  and  antiquity  are 
never  ugly,  and  this  expression  of  religious  care 
seemed  to  suit  well  with  the  ruins  and  souvenirs 
of  the  middle  ages  scattered  about  us. 

But  deeply  rooted  in  the  people  is  a  certain  inde- 
finable love  of  the  ridiculous  and  absurd  which  suc- 
ceeds in  spoiling  everything ;  in  this  poor  church, 
tracery,  from  which  the  gilding  is  worn  away,  crosses 
a  vault  of  scoured  azure  with  tarnished  stars,  flames, 
roses  and  little  cherubs  with  wings  for  cravats.  A 
brownish  pink  angel,  suspended  by  one  foot,  flies 
forward,  bearing  in  its  hand  a  golden  crown.  In 
the  opposite  aisle  may  be  seen  the  face  of  the  sun, 
with  puffy  cheeks,  semicircular  eyebrows,  and  look- 
ing as  sapient  as  in  an  almanac.  The  altar  is 
loaded  with  a  profusion  of  tarnished  gilding,  sallow 
angels,  with  simple  and  piteous  faces  like  those  of 
children  who  have  eaten  too  much  dinner.  All 
this  shows  that  their  huts  are  very  dreary,  naked 
and  dull.  A  people  that  has  just  emerged  from  the 
dirt  is  apt  to  love  gilding.  The  most  insipid  sweet- 
meat is  delicious  to  one  who  has  long  eaten  nothing 
•  but  roots  and  dry  bread. 


Chap.  II. 


LUZ, 


175 


III. 

Luz  was  formerly  the  capital  of  these  valleys, 
which  formed  together  a  sort  of  republic;  each 
commune  deliberated  upon  its  own  private  interests  ; 
four  or  five  villages  formed  a  vie,  and  the  deputies 
from  every  four  vies  assembled  at  Luz. 

The  list  of  the  assessments  was,  from  time  im- 
memorial, made  upon  bits  of  wood  called  totckouXy 
that  is  to  say,  sticks.  Each  community  had  its 
totchou,  upon  which  the  secretary  cut  with  his 
knife  Roman  ciphers,  the  value  of  which  was  known 
only  to  himself  In  1784  the  intendant  ofAuch, 
who  knew  nothing  of  this  custom,  ordered  of  the 
government  officials  to  bring  to  him  the  ancient 
registers  ;  the  official  came,  followed  by  two  cart- 
loads of  totchoux. 

Poor  country,  free  country.  The  estates  of 
Bigorre  were  composed  of  three  chambers  which  de- 
liberated separately ;  that  of  the  clergy,  that  of  the 
nobility,  and  the  third  estate,  made  up  of  consuls 
or  principal  officers  of  the  communes,  and  deputies 
from  the  valleys.  In  these  assemblies  the  taxes 
were  apportioned  and  all  important  matters  were 
discussed.  A  valley  is  a  natural  fortified  city,  de- 
fended against  the  outside  world  and  stimulating 

association.     The  enemy  could  be  arrested  on  his 
8^ 


176 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  II. 


LUZ, 


'17) 


way,  and  crushed  beneath  the  rocks  ;  in  winter,  the 
torrents  and  the  snow  shut  him  off  from  all  en- 
trance. Could  knights  in  armor  pursue  the  herds- 
man into  his  bogs  ?  What  could  they  have  taken 
as  prisoners,  except  a  few  half-starved  goats? 
The  daring  climbers,  hunters  of  the  bear  and  wolf, 
would  willingly  have  played  at  this  game,  sure  of 
^winning  at  it  warm  clothes,  arms  and  horses.  It  is 
thus  that  independence  has  lasted  in  Switzerland. 

Free  country,  poor  country.  I  have  already  re- 
marked that  in  the  valley  of  Ossau.  The  plains 
are  mere  defiles  between  the  feet  of  two  chains. 
Cultivation  climbs  the  slope,  wherever  it  is  not  too 
steep.  If  a  morsel  of  earth  exists  between  two 
rocks,  it  is  put  to  seed.  Man  gets  from  the  desert  as 
much  as  he  can  wrest  from  it :  so  terraces  of  fields 
and  harvests  mottle  the  declivity  with  green  strips 
and  yellow  squares.  Barns  and  stables  sprinkle  it 
with  white  patches ;  it  is  streaked  by  a  long  gray- 
ish footpath.  But  this  robe,  torn  by  jutting  rocks  as 
It  is,  stops  short  half-way  up,  and  the  summit  is 
clothed  only  with  barren  moss. 

The  harvest  is  gathered  in  July,  without  horses, 
of  course,  or  carts.  On  these  slopes,  man  alone 
can  perform  the  service  of  a  horse :  the  sheaves 
are  enclosed  in  great  pieces  of  cloth  and  fastened 
with  cords  ;  the  reaper  takes  the  enormous  bun- 
dle upon  his  head,  and  ascends  with   naked  feet 


r 


among  the  sharp-pointed  stalks  and  stones,  with- 
out ever  making  a  false  step. 

You  find  here  ordinances  reducing  by  half  the 
number  of  men-at-arms  required  of  the  country, 
founded  upon  the  proportion  of  harvests  destroyed 
each  year  by  hail  and  frost.  Several  times,  during 
the  religious  wars,  the  country  became  a  desert. 
In  1575,  Montluc  declares  *'that  it  is  now  so  poor 
that  the  dwellers  hereabouts  are  forced  to  quit 
their  houses  and  take  to  begging."  In  1592,  the 
people  of  Comminge  having  devastated  the 
country,  ''  the  peasants  of  Bigorre  abandoned  the 
culture  of  the  land  for  want  of  cattle,  and  the 
greater  part  of  them  took  the  road  into  Spain.*' 
It  is  not  a  hundred  years  since  that,  in  all  the 
country,  there  were  known  to  exist  but  three  hats 
and  two  pairs  of  shoes.  To  this  very  day,  the 
mountaineers  are  forced  to  renew  with  every  year 
their  sloping  fields,  wasted  by  the  rains  of  winter. 
"  They  burn,  for  light,  bits  of  resinous  pine,  and 
scarcely  ever  taste  meat." 

What  misery  is  contained  in  those  few  words ! 
Yet  how  deep  must  be  the  wretchedness  that  can 
break  the  tie  that  binds  man  to  his  native  soil !  A 
threadbare  text  from  history,  a  phrase  of  passionless 
statistics,  contain  within  their  limits  years  of  suffer- 
ing, myriads  of  deaths,  flight,  separations,  degrada- 
tion.    Of  a  truth,  there  is  too  much  ill  in  the  world. 


178 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  III. 


With  every  century,  man  removes  a  bramble  and 
a  stone  that  had  helped  to  obstruct  the  way  over 
which  he  advances ;  but  what  signifies  a  bramble 
or  a  stone  ?  There  remain,  and  always  will  remain, 
more  than  enough  to  lacerate  and  kill  him.  Besides, 
new  flints  are  falling  into  the  way,  new  thorns  are 
springing  up.  Prosperity  increases  his  sensibility  : 
an  equal  pain  is  inflicted  by  a  less  evil ;  the  body 
may  be  better  shielded,  but  the  soul  is  more  disor- 
dered. The  benefits  of  the  Revolution,  the  progress 
of  industry,  the  discoveries  of  science,  have  given 
us  equality,  the  comforts  of  life,  liberty  of  thought, 
but  at  the  same  time  a  malevolent  envy,  the  rage 
for  success,  impatience  of  the  present,  necessity  of 
luxury,  instability  of  government,  and  all  the  suffer- 
ings of  doubt  and  over-refinement.  Is  a  citizen  of 
the  year  1872  any  happier  than  one  of  the  year 
1672  ?  Less  oppressed,  better  informed  ;  furnished 
with  more  comforts,  all  that  is  certain ;  but  I  do 
not  know  if  he  is  more  cheerful.  One  thing  alone 
increases — experience,  and  with  it  science,  industry, 
power.  In  all  else,  we  lose  as  much  as  we  gain, 
and  the  surest  progress  lies  in  resignation. 


IV. 

This  valley  is   everywhere  refreshed  and  made 
fertile  by  running  water.     On  the  road  to  Pierrefitte 


Chap.  II. 


LUZ, 


179 


I 


two  swift  streams  prattle  under  the  shade  of  the 
flowering  hedges  :  no  travelling  companion  could 
be  gayer.  On  both  sides,  from  every  meadow, 
flow  streamlets  that  cross  each  other,  separate, 
come  together,  and  finally  together  spring  into  the 
Gave.  In  this  way  the  peasants  water  all  their 
crops ;  a  field  has  five  or  six  lines  of  streams  which 
run  hemmed  in  by  beds  of  slate.  The  bounding 
troop  tosses  itself  in  the  sunlight,  like  a  madcap 
band  of  boys  just  let  loose  from  school.  The  turf 
that  they  nourish  is  of  an  incomparable  freshness 
and  vigor;  the  herbage  grows  thick  along  the 
brink,  bathes  its  feet  in  the  water,  or  lies  under  the 
rush  of  the  little  waves,  and  its  ribbons  tremble  in  a 
pearly  reflection  under  the  ripples  of  silver.  You 
cannot  walk  ten  steps  without  stumbling  upoi  a 
waterfall ;  swollen  and  boiling  cascades  pour  down 
upon  great  blocks  of  stone;  transparent  sheets 
stretch  themselves  over  the  rocky  shelves ;  thread- 
like streaks  of  foam  wind  from  the  verge  to  the 
very  valley ;  springs  ooze  out  alongside  the  hang- 
ing grasses  and  fall  drop  by  drop ;  on  the  right 
rolls  the  Gave,  and  drowns  all  these  murmurs  with 
its  great  monotonous  voice.  The  beautiful  blue  iris 
thrives  along  the  marshy  slopes ;  woods  and  crops 
climb  very  high  among  the  rocks.  The  valley 
smiles,  encircled  with  verdure ;  but  on  the  horizon 
the  embattled  peaks,  the  serrate  crests  and  black 


iSo 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


escarpments  of  the  notched  mountains  rise  into  the. 
blue  sky,  beneath  their  mantle  of  snow. 

Back  of  Luz  is  a  bare,  rounded  eminence,  called 
Saint-Pierre,  crowned  by  a  fragment  of  gray  ruin, 
and  commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  valley. 
When  the  sky  has  been  overcast,  I  have  spent  here 
entire  hours  without  a  moment  of  weariness :  be- 
neath its  cloudy  curtain  the  air  is  moderately 
warm.  Sudden  patches  of  sunlight  stripe  the 
Gave,  or  illumine  the  harvests  hung  midway  on 
the  mountain  slope.  The  swallows,  with  shrill 
cries,  wheel  high  in  the  creeping  vapors ;  the 
sound  of  the  Gave  comes  up,  softened  by  dis- 
tance into  a  harmony  that  is  almost  aerial.  The 
wind  breathes,  and  dies  away ;  a  troop  of  little 
flowers  flutters  at  the  passage  of  its  wing;  the 
buttercups  are  drawn  up  in  Hne ;  frail  little  pinks 
bury  in  the  herbage  their  rosy-purple  stars ;  slen- 
der-stemmed grasses  nod  over  the  broad  slaty 
patches;  the  air  is  filled  with  the  fragrance  of 
thyme.  Are  they  not  happy,  these  solitary  plants, 
watered  by  the  dew,  fanned  by  the  breezes  ?  This 
height  is  a  desert,  no  one  comes  to  tread  them 
down ;  they  grow  after  their  own  sweet  will,  in 
clefts  of  the  rock,  by  families,  useless  and  free, 
flooded  by  the  loveliest  sunlight.  And  man,  the 
slave  of  necessity,  begs  and  calculates  under  pen- 
alty of  his  life  !     Three  children,  all  in  rags,  came 


% 


f 


Chap.  II. 


LUZ, 


x8x 


upon  the  scene:  "What  are  you  looking  for 
here  ?  " 

"  Butterflies." 

''What  for?" 

''  To  sell." 

The  youngest  had  a  sort  of  tumor  on  his  fore- 
head. **  Please,  sir,  a  sou  for  the  little  one  who 
is  ill.' 


CHAPTER  HI. 

SAINT-SA  UVEUR.—BARMGES. 

I. 
Saint-Sauveur  is  a  sloping  street,  both  pretty 
and  regular,  bearing  no  trace  of  the  extemporized 
hotel  or  of  the  scenery  of  an  opera,  and  without 
either  the  rustic  roughness  of  a  village  or  the  tar- 
nished  elegance   of  a  city.     The   houses   extend 
without  monotony  their  lines  of  windows  encased 
in  rough-hewn  marble  :  on  the  right,  they  are  set 
back  to  back  against  pointed    rocks,  from   which 
water  oozes ;  on  the  left  they  overhang  the  Gave, 
which  eddies  at  the  bottom  of  the  precipice. 

The    bath-house  is   a   square    portico   with    a 
double  row  of  columns,  in  style  at  once  noble  and 
simple ;  the  blue-gray  of  the  marble,  neither  dull 
nor   glaring,  is   pleasing  to  the   eye.     A  terrace 
planted  with  lindens  projects  over  the  Gave,  and 
receives  the  cool  breezes  that  rise  from  the  torrent 
toward  the  heights ;  these  lindens  fill  the  air  with  a 
delicate  and  agreeable  perfume.     At  the  foot  of  the 
breast-high  wall,  the  water  of  the  spring  shoots 
forth  in  a  white  jet  and  falls  between  the  tree-tops 
into  a  depth  unfathomable  by  the  eye. 


Chap.  HI.     SAINT-SAUVEUR.— BAREGES. 


183 


At  the  end  of  the  village,  the  winding  paths  of 
an  English  garden  descend  to  the  Gave ;  you  cross 
its  dull  blue  waters  on  a  frail  wooden  bridge,  and 
mount  again,  skirting  a  field  of  millet  as  far  as  the 
road  to  Scia.     The  side  of  this  road  plunges  down 
six  hundred  feet,  streaked  with  ravines  ;  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  abyss,  the   Gave  writhes  in  a  rocky 
corridor  that  the  noon-day  sun  scarce  penetrates  ; 
the  slope  is  so  rapid  that,  in  several  places,  the 
stream  is  invisible ;  the  precipice  is  so  deep  that 
the  roar  reaches  the  ear  like  a  murmur.     The  tor- 
rent is  lost  to  sight  under  the  cornices  and  boils  in 
the  caverns;  at  every  step  it  whitens  with  foam 
the  smooth  stone.     Its  restless  ways,  its  mad  leaps, 
its   dark   and   livid   reflexes,     suggest    a    serpent 
wounded  and  covered  with  foam.    But  the  strangest 
spectacle  of  all  is  that  of  the  wall  of  rocks  opposite : 
the   mountain  has  been  cleft  perpendicularly  as  il 
by  an  immense  sword,  and  one  would  say  that  the 
first  gash  had  been  further    mutilated   by  hands, 
weaker,  yet  still  infuriate.     From  the  summit  down 
to  the  Gave,  the  rock  is  of  the  color  of  dead  wood, 
stripped  of  the  bark ;  the    prodigious  tree-trunk, 
slit   and  jagged,    seems    mouldering    away  there 
through  the  centuries;  water  oozes  in  the  black- 
ened rents  as  in  those  of  a  worm-eaten  block ;  it  is 
yellowed  by  mosses  such  as  vegetate  in  the  rotten- 
ness of  humid  oaks.     Its  wounds  have  the  brown 


1 84 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  III. 


Chap.  III.    SAINT-SAUVEUR.SAREGES, 


185 


and  veined  hues  that  one  sees  in  the  old  scars  of 
trees.     It  is  in  truth  a  petrified  beam,  a  relic  of 

Babel. 

The  geologists  are  a  fortunate  race  j  they  express 
all  this,  and  many  things  besides,  when  they  say 
that  the  rock  is  schistose. 

After  going  a  league  we  found  a  bit  of  meadow, 
two  or  three  cottages  situated  upon  the  gentle 
slope.  The  contrast  is  refreshing.  And  yet  the 
pasturage  is  meagre,  studded  with  barren  rocks, 
surrounded  with  fallen  debris ;  if  it  were  not  for  a 
rivulet  of  ice-cold  water,  the  sun  would  scorch  the 
herbage.  Two  children  were  sleeping  under  a 
walnut-tree ;  a  goat  that  had  climbed  upon  a  rock 
was  bleating  plaintively  and  tremblingly;  three 
or  four  hens,  with  curious  and  uneasy  air,  were 
scratching  on  the  brink  of  a  trench  ;  a  woman  was 
drawing  water  from  the  spring  with  a  wooden 
porringer :  such  is  the  entire  wealth  of  these  poor 
households.  Sometimes  they  have,  four  or  five 
hundred  feet  higher  up,  a  field  of  barley,  so  steep 
that  the  reaper  must  be  fastened  by  a  rope  in 
order  to  harvest  it. 

II. 

The  Gave  is  strewn  with  small  islands,  which 
may  be  reached  by  jumping  from  one  stone  to  an- 
other.    These   islands  are    beds   of  bluish   rock 


>i 


spotted  with  pebbles  of  a  staring  white ;  they  are 
submerged  in  winter,  and  now  there  are  trunks 
stripped  of  their  bark  still  lying  here  and  there 
among  the  bowlders.  In  some  hollows  are  re- 
mains of  ooze ;  from  these  spring  clusters  of  elms 
like  a  discharge  of  fireworks,  and  tufts  of  grass  wave 
over  the  arid  pebbles;  around  the  hushed  water 
grows  warm  in  the  caverns.  Meanwhile  on  two 
sides  the  mountain  lifts  its  reddish  wall,  streaked 
with  foam  by  the  streamlets  that  wind  down  over 
the  surface.  Over  all  the  flanks  of  the  island  the 
cascades  rumble  like  thunder ;  twenty  ravines,  one 
above  another,  engulf  them  in  their  chasms,  and 
their  roar  comes  from  all  sides  like  the  din  of  a  bat- 
tle. A  mist  flashes  back  and  floats  above  all  this 
storm :  it  hangs  among  the  trees  and  opposes  its 
fine  cool  gauze  to  the  burning  of  the  sun. 

III. 

In  clear  weather  I  have  often  climbed  the  moun- 
tain before  sunrise.  During  the  night,  the  mist  of 
the  Gave,  accumulated  in  the  gorges,  has  filled 
them  to  overflowing ;  under  foot  there  is  a  sea  of 
clouds,  and  overhead  a  dome  of  tender  blue  radiant 
with  morning  splendor;  everything  else  has  dis- 
appeared ;  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  the  luminous 
azure  of  heaven   and    the   dazzling  satin    of  the 


I 


1 86 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


clouds ;  nature  wears  her  vesture  of  purity.     The 
eye  glides  with  pleasure  over  the  softly  rounded 
forms  of  the  aerial  mass.     In  its  bosom  the  black 
crests  stand  forth  like  promontories  ;  the  mountain 
tops   that  it   bathes    rise  like   an    archipelago    of 
rocks;    it  buries    itself  in  the  jagged  gulfs,  and 
waves  slowly  around  the  peaks  that  it  gains.     The 
harshness  of  the  bald  crests  heightens  the  grace 
of  its  ravishing  whiteness.     But  it  evaporates  as  it 
rises ;  already  the  landscapes  of  the  depths  appear 
under  a  transparent  twilight ;    the  middle   of  the 
valley   discovers    itself.      There    remains    of    the 
floating  sea  only  a  white  girdle,  which  trails  along 
the   declivities ;    it  becomes  torn,  and  the  shreds 
hang  for  a  moment  to  the  tops  of  the  trees ;  the 
last  tufts  take   flight,  and  the  Gave,  struck  by  the 
sun,  glitters  around  the  mountain  like  a  necklace 
of  diamonds. 

IV. 

Paul  and  I  have  gone  to  Bareges ;  the  road  is  a 
continual  ascent  for  two  leagues. 

An  alley  of  trees  stretches  between  a  brook  and 
the  Gave.  The  water  leaps  from  every  height ;  here 
and  there  a  crowd  of  little  mills  is  perched  over 
the  cascades;  the  declivities  are  sprinkled  with 
them.  It  is  amusing  to  see  the  little  things  nestled 
in  the  hollows  of  the  colossal  slopes.    And  yet  their 


iU 


t 


Chap.  III.     SAINT-SA  UVE UR.—BARAGES. 


187 


slated  roofs  smile  and  gleam  among  the  foliage. 
There  is  nothing  here  that  is  not  gracious  and  love- 
ly ;  the  banks  of  the  Gave  preserve  their  freshness 
under  the  burning  sun ;  the  small  streams  scarcely 
leave  between  themselves  and  it  a  narrow  band  of 
green ;  one  is  surrounded  by  running  waters ;  the 
shadow  of  the  ashes  and  alders  trembles  in  the  fine 
grass;  the  trees  shoot  up  with  a  superb  toss,  in 
smooth  columns,  and  only  spread  forth  in  branches 
at  a  height  of  forty  feet.  The  dark  water  in  the 
trench  of  slate  grazes  the  green  stems  in  its 
course ;  it  runs  so  swiftly  that  it  seems  to  shiver. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  torrent,  the  poplars 
rise  one  above  another  on  the  verdant  hill ;  their 
palish  leaves  stand  out  against  the  pure  blue  of  the 
sky ;  they  quiver  and  shine  at  the  slightest  wind. 
Flowering  brambles  descend  the  length  of  the  rock 
and  reach  the  tips  of  the  waves.  Further  off,  the 
back  of  the  mountain,  loaded  with  brushwood, 
stretches  out  in  a  warm  tint  of  dark  blue.  The 
distant  woods  sleep  in  this  envelope  of  living 
moisture,  and  the  earth  impregnated  by  it  seems 
to  inhale  with  it  force  and  pleasure. 

V. 

Soon  the  mountains  grow  bald,  the  trees  disap- 
pear ;  nothing  upon  the  slopes  but  a  poor  brush- 


i38 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ, 


Book  III. 


Chap.  III.     SAINT-SAUVEUR.—BAREGES. 


189 


wood  :  Bareges  is  seen.  The  landscape  is  hideous. 
The  flank  of  the  mountain  is  creviced  with  whitish 
slides  ;  the  narrow  and  wasted  plain  disappears  be- 
neath the  coarse  sand ;  the  poor  herbage,  dry  and 
weighed  down,  fails  at  every  step  ;  the  earth  is  as  if 
ripped  open,  and  the  slough,  through  its  yawning 
wound,  exposes  the  very  entrails ;  the  beds  of  yel- 
lowish limestone  are  laid  bare;  one  walks  on  sands 
and  trains  of  rounded  pebbles  ;  the  Gave  itself  half 
disappears  under  heaps  of  grayish  stones,  and  with 
difficulty  gets  out  of  the  desert  it  has  made.  This 
broken-up  soil  is  as  ugly  as  it  is  melancholy ;  the 
debris  are  dirty  and  mean ;  they  date  from  yester- 
day ;  you  feel  that  the  devastation  begins  anew 
with  every  year.  Ruins,  in  order  to  be  beautiful, 
must  be  either  grand  or  blackened  by  time  ;  here, 
the  stones  have  just  been  unearthed,  they  are  still 
soaking  in  the  mud  ;  two  miry  streamlets  creep 
through  the  gullies :  the  place  reminds  one  of  an 
abandoned  quarry. 

The  town  of  Bareges  is  as  ugly  as  its  avenue  ; 
melancholy  houses,  ill  patched  up ;  at  some  dis 
tance  apart  are  long  rows  of  booths  and  wooden 
huts,  where  handkerchiefs  and  poor  ironmongery 
are  sold.  It  is  because  the  avalanche  accumulates 
every  winter  in  a  mountain  crevice  on  the  left,  and 
as  it  slides  down  carries  off  a  side  of  the  street ; 
these  booths  are  a  scar.      The  cold  mists  collect 


I 


here,  the  wind  penetrates  and  the  little  town  is  un- 
inhabitable in  winter.  The  ground  is  enshrouded 
under  fifteen  feet  of  snow ;  all  the  inhabitants  emi- 
grate ;  seven  or  eight  mountaineers  are  left  here 
with  provisions,  to  watch  over  the  houses  and  the 
furniture.  It  often  happens  that  these  poor  peo- 
ple catinot  get  as  far  as  Luz,  and  remain  impris- 
oned during  several  weeks. 

The  bathing  establishment  is  miserable,  the  com- 
partments are  cellars  without  air  or  light;  there 
are  only  sixteen  cabinets,  all  dilapidated.  Invalids 
are  often  obliged  to  bathe  at  night.  The  three  pools 
are  fed  by  water  which  has  just  served  for  the  bath- 
ing-tubs ;  that  for  the  poor  receives  the  water  dis- 
charged from  the  other  two.  These  pools,  piscines, 
are  low  and  dark,  a  sort  of  stifling,  under-ground 
prison.  One  must  have  pretty  good  health  in 
order  to  be  cured  in  them. 

The  military  hospital,  banished  to  the  north  of 
the  little  town,  is  a  melancholy  plastered  building, 
whose  windows  are  ranged  in  rows  with  military 
regularity.  The  invalids,  wrapped  in  a  gray  cloak 
too  large  for  them,  climb  one  by  one  the  naked 
slope,  and  seat  themselves  among  the  stones  ;  they 
bask  whole  hours  in  the  sun,  and  look  straight  be- 
fore them  with  a  resigned  air.  An  invalid's  days 
are  so  long !  These  wasted  faces  resume  an  air  of 
gayety  when  a  comrade  passes ;  they  exchange  a 


190 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ, 


Book  III. 


Chap.  III.    SAINT-SAUVEUR.— BAREGES. 


191 


jest :  even  in  a  hospital,  at  Bareges  even,  a  French 
man  remains  a  Frenchman. 

.  You  meet  poor  old  men  on  crutches,  invalids, 
climbing  the  steep  street.  Those  visages  reddened 
by  the  inclement  air,  those  pitiful  bent  or  twisted 
limbs,  the  swollen  or  enfeebled  flesh,  the  dull  eyes, 
already  dead,  are  painful  to  behold.  At  their  age, 
habituated  to  misery,  they  ought  to  feel  only  the 
suffering  of  the  moment,  not  to  trouble  themselves 
about  the  past,  and  no  longer  to  care  for  the 
future.  You  need  to  think  that  their  torpid  soul 
lives  on  like  a  machine.  They  are  the  ruins  of  man 
alongside  those  of  the  soil. 

The  aspect  of  the  west  is  still  more  sombre. 
An  enormous  mass  of  blackish  and  snowy  peaks 
girdles  the  horizon.  They  are  hung  over  the  val- 
ley like  an  eternal  threat.  Those  spines  so  rugged, 
so  manifold,  so  angular,  give  to  the  eye  the  sensa- 
tion of  an  invincible  hardness.  There  comes  from 
them  a  cold  wind,  that  drives  heavy  clouds  towards 
Bareges;  nothing  is  gay  but  the  two  jewelled 
streamlets  which  border  the  street  and  prattle  noisily 
over  the  blue  pebbles. 

VI. 

In  order  to  console  ourselves  here,  we  have  read 
some  charming  letters ;  here  is  one  of  them  from 


the  little  Due  du  Maine,  seven  years  old,  whom 
Mme.  de  Maintenon  had  brought  here  to  be  cured. 
He  wrote  to  his  mother  Mme.  de  Montespan,  and 
'the  letter  must  certainly  pass  under  the  kings 
eyes.     What  a  school  of  style  was  that  court ! 

''I  am  going  off  to  write  all  the  news  of  the 
house  for  thy  diversion,  my  dear  little  heart,  and  I 
shall  write  far  better  when  I  shall  think  that  it  is 
for  you,  madame.  Mme.  de  Maintenon  spends  all 
her  time  in  spinning,  and,  if  they  would  let  her,  she 
would  also  give  up  her  nights  to  it,  or  to  writing. 
She  toils  daily  for  my  mind ;  she  has  good  hope 
of  making  something  of  it,  and  the  darling  too, 
who  will  do  all  he  can  to  have  some  brains,  for  he 
is  dying  with  the  desire  of  pleasing  the  king  and 
you.  On  the  way  here  I  read  the  history  of  Cae- 
sar, am  at  present  reading  that  of  Alexander,  and 
shall  soon  commence  that  of  Pompey.  La  Couture 
does  not  like  to  lend  me  Mme.  de  Maintenon's  pet- 
ticoats, when  I  want  to  disguise  myself  as  a  girl. 
I  have  received  the  letter  you  write  to  the  dear 
little  darling ;  I  was  delighted  with  it ;  I  will  do 
what  you  bid  me,  if  only  to  please  you,  for  I  love 
you  superlatively.  I  was,  and  am  still,  charmed 
with  the  little  nod  that  the  kin  or  o-ave  me  on  leavino-. 
but  was  very  ill  pleased  that  thou  didst  not  seem  to 
me  sorry  :   thou  wast  beautiful  as  an  angel." 

Could  any  one  be  more  gracious,  more  flattering, 


Z92 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III 


Chap.  III.    SAINT-SAUVEUR.— BAREGES. 


193 


insinuating  or  precocious  ?  To  please  was  a  neces 
sity  at  that  time,  to  please  people  of  the  world, 
quick-witted  people.  Never  were  men  more  agree- 
able ;  because  there  was  never  greater  need  of  be- 
ing agreeable.  This  youth,  brought  up  among 
petticoats,  took  on  from  the  beginning  a  woman's 
vivacity,  her  coquetry  and  smiles.  You  see  that  he 
gets  upon  their  knees,  receives  and  gives  embraces, 
and  is  amusing ;  there  is  no  prettier  trinket  in  the 

salon. 

Mme.  de  Maintenon,  devout,  circumspect  and 
politic,  also  writes,  but  with  the  clearness  and  bre- 
vity of  a  worldly  abbess  or  a  president  in  petti- 
coats. '*  You  see  that  I  take  courage  in  a  place 
more  frightful  than  I  can  tell  you ;  to  crown  the 
misery,  we  are  freezing  here.  The  company  is  poor ; 
they  respect  and  bore  us.  All  the  women  are  ill 
continually  ;  they  are  loungers  who  have  found  the 
world  really  great  as  soon  as  ever  they  have  been 
at  Etampes." 

We  have  amused  ourselves  with  this  raillery, 
dry,  disdainful,  clear-cut  and  somewhat  too  short, 
and  I  have  maintained  to  Paul  that  Mme.  de  Main- 
tenon  resembles  the  yews  at  Versailles,  brushy  ex- 
tinguishers that  are  too  closely  clipped.  Whereup- 
on I  spoke  very  ill  of  the  landscapes  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  of  Le  Notre,  Poussin  and  his  archi- 
tectural nature,  Leclerc,  Perelle,  and  of  their  ab- 


stract, conventional  trees,  whose  majestically  round- 
ed foliage  agrees  with  that  of  no  known  species. 
He  lectured  me  severely,  according  to  his  custom, 
and  called  me  narrow-minded;  he  maintains  that 
all  is  beautiful ;  that  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  put 
yourself  at  the  right  point  of  view.  His  reasoning 
was  nearly  as  follows  : 

He  claims  that  things  please  us  by  contrast,  and 
that  beautiful  things  are  different  for  different  souls. 
*'  One  day,"  said  he,  ''  I  was  travelling  with  some 
English  people   in  Champagne,  on  a  cloudy  day  in 
September.     They  found  the  plains  horrible,  and  I 
admirable.     The  dull  fields  stretched  out  like  a  sea 
to  the  very  verge  of  the  horizon,  without  encoun- 
tering a  hill.    The  stalks  of  the  close-reaped  wheat 
dyed  the  earth  with  a  wan  yellow ;  the  plain  seemed 
covered  with  an  old  wet  mantle.     Here  were  lines 
of  deformed  elms  ;  here  and  there  a  meagre  square 
of  fir-trees  ;  further  off  a  cottage  of  chalk  with  its 
white  pool :  from  furrow  to  furrow  the  sun  trailed 
its  sickly  light,  and  the  earth,  emptied  of  its  fruits, 
resembled  a  woman  dead  in  child-bed  whose  infant 

they  have  taken  away. 

''  My  companions  were  utterly  bored,  and  called 
down  curses  on  France.  Their  minds,  strained  by 
the  rude  passions  of  politics,  by  the  national  arro- 
gance, and  the  stiffness  of  scriptural  morality, 
needed    repose.       They    wanted    a    smiling    and 


194 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  III. 


flowery  country,  meadows  soft  and  still,  fine 
shadows,  largely  and  harmoniously  grouped  on  the 
slopes  of  the  hills.  The  sunburnt  peasants,  dull  of 
countenance,  sitting  near  a  pool  of  mud,  were  dis- 
agreeable to  them.  For  repose,  they  dreamed  of 
pretty  cottages  set  in  fresh  turf,  fringed  with  rosy 
honeysuckle.  Nothing  could  be  more  reasonable. 
A  man  obliged  to  hold  himself  upright  and  unbend- 
ing finds  a  sitting  posture  the  most  beautiful. 

"  You  go  to  Versailles,  and  you  cry  out  against 
the  taste  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Those  for- 
mal and  monumental  waters,  the  firs  turned  in  the 
lathe,  the  rectangular  staircases  heaped  one  above 
another,  the  trees  drawn  up  like  grenadiers  on 
parade,  recall  to  you  the  geometry  class  and  the 
platoon  school.  Nothing  can  be  better.  But  cease 
for  an  instant  to  judge  according  to  your  habits 
and  wants  of  the  day.  You  live  alone,  or  at  home, 
on  a  third  floor  in  Paris,  and  spend  four  hours 
weekly  in  the  saloons  of  some  thirty  different  peo- 
ple. Louis  XIV.  lived  eight  hours  a  day,  every 
day  the  whole  year  long,  in  public,  and  this  public 
included  all  the  lords  of  France.  He  held  his 
drawing-room  in  the  open  air ;  the  drawing-room 
is  the  park  at  Versailles.  Why  ask  of  it  the 
charms  of  a  valley  ?  These  squared  hedges  of  horn- 
beam are  necessary  that  the  embroidered  coats  may 
not  be  caught.     This  levelled  and  shaven  turf  is 


Chap.  III.    SAINT-SAUVEUR.—BAR£GES. 


195 


necessary  that  high-heeled  shoes  may  not  be 
wetted.  The  duchesses  will  form  a  circle  about 
these  circular  sheets  of  water.  Nothing  can  be 
better  chosen  than  these  immense  and  symmetrical 
staircases  for  showing  off*  the  gold  and  silver  laced 
robes  of  three  hundred  ladies.  These  large  alleys, 
which  seem  empty  to  you,  were  majestic  when  fifty 
lords  in  brocade  and  lace  displayed  here  their  cor- 
dons bleus  and  their  graceful  bows.  No  garden  is 
better  constructed  for  showing  one's  self  in  grand 
costume  and  in  great  company,  for  making  a  bow, 
for  chatting  and  concocting  intrigues  of  gallantry 
and  business.  You  wish  perhaps  to  rest,  to  be 
alone,  to  dream ;  you  must  go  elsewhere ;  you  have 
come  to  the  wrong  gate :  but  it  would  be  the  height 
of  absurdity  to  blame  a  drawing-room  for  being  a 
drawing-room. 

''  You  understand  then  that  our  modern  taste 
will  be  as  transitory  as  the  ancient ;  that  is  to  say, 
that  it  is  precisely  as  reasonable  and  as  foolish. 
We  have  the  right  to  admire  wild,  uncultivated 
spots,  as  once  men  had  the  right  of  getting  tired  in 
them.  Nothing  uglier  to  the  seventeenth  century 
than  a  true  mountain.  It  recalled  a  thousand  ideas 
of  misfortune.  The  men  who  had  come  out  from 
the  civil  wars  and  semi-barbarism  thought  of 
famines,  of  long  journeys  on  horseback  through  rain 
and  snow,  of  the  wretched  black  bread  mingled 


ig6 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  IIL 


with   straw,   of  the  foul    hostelrles,    infested  with 
vermin.     They  were  tired  of  barbarism  as  we  of 
civiHzation.     To-day  the  streets  are  so  dean,  the 
poHce  so  abundant,  the  houses  drawn  out  in  such 
regular  lines,  manners  are  so  peaceful,  events  so 
small  and  so  clearly  foreseen,  that  we  love  grandeur 
and  the   unforeseen.      The  landscape  changes  as 
literature    does :    then    literature    furnished     lono- 
sugary  romances  and  elegant  dissertations  ;  now-a- 
days  it  offers  spasmodic  poetry  and  a  physiological 
drama.     Landscape  is  an  unwritten  literature  ;  the 
former  like  the  latter  is  a  sort  of  flattery  addressed 
to  our  passions,  or  a  nourishment  proffered  to  our 
needs.     These  old  wasted  mountains,  these  lacera- 
ting points,  brisding  by  myriads,  these  formidable 
fissures  whose  perpendicular  wall  plunges  with  a 
spring  down  into  invisible  depths ;    this  chaos  of 
monstrous  ridges  heaped  together,    and    crushing 
each  other  like   an  affrighted  herd  of  leviathans; 
this  universal    and  implacable  domination  of   the 
naked  rock,  the  enemy  of  all  life,  refreshes  us  after 
our  pavements,  our  offices  and  our  shops.     You  only 
love  them  from  this  cause,  and  this  cause  removed, 
they  would  be  as  unpleasant  to  you  as  to  Madame 
de  Maintenon.*' 

So  that  there  are  fifty  sorts  of  beauty, — one  for 
every  age. 
"  Certainly." 


197 


Chap.  III.    SAINT-SA  UVEUR.-BARJ^GES, 

Then  there  is  no  such  thing  as  beauty. 
"  That  is  as  if  you  were  to  say  that  a  woman  is 
nude  because  she  has  fifty  dresses." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


'^. 


CA  UTERETS. 


L 


Cauterets  is  a  town  at  the  bottom  of  a  valley, 
melancholy  enough,  paved  and  provided  with  an 
octroi.  Innkeepers,  guides,  the  whole  of  a  fam- 
ished population  besieges  us  ;  but  we  have  consid- 
erable force  of  mind,  and  after  a  spirited  resistance 
we  obtain  the  right  of  looking  about  and  choos- 
ing. 

Fifty  paces  further  on,  we  are  fastened  upon  by 
servants,  children,  donkey-hirers  and  boys,  who 
accidentally  stroll  about  us.  They  offer  us  cards, 
they  praise  up  to  us  the  site,  the  cuisine  ;  they  ac- 
company us,  cap  in  hand,  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
village ;  at  the  same  time  they  elbow  away  all  com- 
petitors :  ''  The  stranger  is  mine,  Fll  baste  you  if 
you  come  near  him."  Each  hotel  has  its  runners 
on  the  watch  ;  they  hunt  the  isard  in  winter,  the 
traveller  in  summer. 

The  town  has  several  springs  :  that  of  the  King 
cured  Abarca,  king  of  Aragon  ;  that  of  Csesar  re- 
stored health,   as    they  say,   to    the  great  Csesar. 


V 


Chap.  IV. 


CA  UTERETS. 


199 


Faith  is  needed  in  history  as  well  as  in  medi- 
cine. 

For  example,  in  the  time  of  Francis  I.  the  Eaux 
Bonnes  cured  wounds ;  they  were  called  Eaux 
d'arquebusades  •  the  soldiers  wounded  at  Pavia 
were  sent  to  them.  Now  they  cure  diseases  of  the 
throat  and  chest.  A  hundred  years  hence  they 
will  perhaps  heal  something  else ;  with  every  cen- 
tury medicine  makes  an  advance. 

"Formerly,"  said  Sgnarelle,  "the  liver  .was  at 
the  right  and  the  heart  at  the  left ;  we  have  re- 
formed all  that." 

A  celebrated  physician  one  day  said  to  his  pu- 
pils: "  Employ  this  remedy  at  once,  while  it  still 
cures."     Medicines,  like  hats,  have  their  fashions. 

Yet  what  can  be  said  against  this  remedy  ? 
The  climate  is  warm,  the  gorge  sheltered,  the  air 
pure,  the  gayety  of  the  sun  is  cheering.  A  change 
of  habits  leads  to  a  change  of  thoughts ;  melan- 
choly ideas  take  flight.  The  water  is  not  bad 
to  drink ;  you  have  had  a  beautiful  journey ;  the 
moral  cures  the  physical  nature  ;  if  not,  you  have 
had  hope  for  two  months — and  what,  I  beg  to  know, 
is  a  remedy,  if  not  a  pretext  for  hoping?  You 
take  patience  and  pleasure  until  either  illness  or 
invalid  departs,  and  everything  is  for  the  best 
in  the  best  of  worlds. 


200 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  IIL 


Chap.  IV. 


CA  UTERETS. 


20I 


II. 

Several  leagues  away,  among  the  precipices, 
sleeps  the  lake  of  Gaube.  The  green  water,  three 
hundred  feet  in  depth,  has  the  reflexes  of  an 
emerald.  The  bald  heads  of  the  mountains  are 
mirrored  in  it  with  a  divine  serenity.  The  slender 
column  of  the  pines  is  reflected  there  as  clear  as  in 
the  air;  in  the  distance,  the  woods  clothed  in  bluish 
mist  come  down  to  bathe  their  feet  in  its  cold 
wave,  and  the  huge  Vignemale,  spotted  with  snow, 
shuts  it  about  with  her  cliffs.  At  times  a  remnant 
of  breeze  comes  to  ruffle  it,  and  all  those  grand 
images  undulate;  the  Greek  Diana,  the  wild, 
maiden  huntress,  would  have  taken  it  for  a  mir- 
ror. 

How  one  sees  her  come  to  life  again  in  such  sites  ! 
Her  marbles  are  fallen,  her  festivals  have  vanished ; 
but  in  the  shivering  of  the  firs,  at  the  sound  of  the 
cracking  glaciers,  before  the  steely  splendors  of 
these  chaste  waters,  she  reappears  like  a  vision. 
All  the  night  long,  in  the  outcries  of  the  wind,  the 
herdsmen  could  hear  the  baying  of  her  hounds 
and  the  whistling  of  her  arrows;  the  untamed 
chorus  of  her  nymphs  coursed  over  the  precipices ; 
the  moon  shone  upon  their  shoulders  of  silver,  and 
on  the  point  of  their  lances.     In  the  morning  she 


i 

f 


came  to  bathe  her  arms  in  the  lake;  and  more 
than  once  has  she  been  seen  standing  upon  a  sum- 
mit, her  eyes  fixed,  her  brow  severe  ;  her  foot  trod 
the  cruel  snow,  and  her  virgin  breasts  gleamed  be- 
Ineath  the  winter  sun. 


III. 

The  Diana  of  the  country  is  more  amiable  ;  it  is 
the  lively  and  gracious  Margaret  of  Navarre,  sister 
and  liberatress  of  Francis  I.  She  came  to  these 
waters  with  her  court,  her  poets,  her  musicians, 
her  savants,  a  poet  and  theologian  herself,  of  in- 
finite curiosity,  reading  Greek,  learning  Hebrew, 
and  taken  up  with  Calvinism.  On  coming  out  of 
the  routine  and  discipline  of  the  middle  ages,  dis- 
putes about  dogma  and  the  thorns  of  erudition  ap- 
peared agreeable,  even  to  ladies  ;  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
Elizabeth  took  part  in  these  things  :  it  was  a  fashion, 
as  two  centuries  later  it  was  good  taste  to  dispute 
upon  Newton  and  the  existence  of  God.  The 
Bishop  of  Meaux  wrote  to  Margaret :  *'  Madame,  if 
there  were  at  the  end  of  the  world  a  doctor  who. 
by  a  single  abridged  verb,  could  teach  you  as 
much  grammar  as  it  is  possible  to  know,  and  an- 
other as  much  rhetoric,  and  another  philosophy, 
and  so  on  with  the  seven  liberal  arts,  each  one  by 
an  abridged  verb,  you  would  fly  there  as  to  the 


202 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III 


\i 


Chap.  IV. 


CA  UTERETS. 


203 


fire/'  She  did  fly  there  and  got  overloaded.  The 
heavy  philosophic  spoil  oppressed  her  already 
slender  thought.  Her  pious  poems  are  as  infan- 
tile as  the  odes  written  by  Racine  at  Port-Royal. 
What  trouble  we  have  had  in  getting  free  from  the 
middle  ages  !  The  mind  bent,  warped  and  twisted, 
had  contracted  the  ways  of  a  choir-boy. 

A  poet  of  the  country  composed  in  her   honor 
the  following  pretty  song  : — 

At  the  baths  of  Toulouse 

There's  a  spring  clear  and  fair, 
And  three  pretty  doves 

Came  to  drink  and  bathe  there ; 
When  at  last  they  had  bathed 

Thus  for  months  barely  three, 
For  the  heights  of  Cauterets 

Left  they  fountain  and  me. 

But  why  go  to  Cauterets, 

What  is  there  to  be  seen  ? 
**  It  is  there  that  we  bathe 

With  the  king  and  the  queen. 
And  the  king  has  a  cot 

Hung  with  jasmin  in  flower ; 
The  dear  queen  has  the  same, 

But  love  makes  it  a  bower.* 


*  For  fear  that  in  my  version  the  grace  may  have  disappeared,  I  append 
the  original. — Translator. 

Aiis  Thermos  de  Toulouso 
Ue  fontaine  claru  y  a, 

Bagnan  s'y  paloumettos 
Aii  nombre  soun  de  tres. 


Is  it  not  graceful  and  thoroughly  southern. 
Margaret  is  less  poetic,  more  French :  her  verses 
are  not  brilliant,  but  at  times  are  very  touching,  by 
force  of  real  and  simple  tenderness. 

Car  quand  je  puis  aupres  de  moi  tenir 
Celui  que  j'aime,  mal  ne  me  pent  venir. 

A  moderate  imagination,  a  woman's  heart 
thoroughly  devoted,  and  inexhaustible  in  devotion, 
a  good  deal  of  naturalness,  clearness,  ease,  the  art 
of  narration  and  of  smiling,  an  agreeable  but  never 
wicked  malice,  is  not  this  enough  to  make  you 
love  Margaret  and  read  here  the  Heptameron  ? 


Tant  s'y  soun  bagnadette 
Pendant  dus  ou  tres  mes, 

Qu'an  pres  la  bouladette 
Tail  haiit  de  Cauteres, 

Digat-m^,  paloumettes, 
Qui  y  ey  a  Cauteres  ? 

"  Lou  rey  et  la  reynette 
Si  bagnay  dab  nous  tres, 

Lou  rey  qu'a  ue  cabano 
Couberto  qu'ey  de  flous ; 

La  reyne  que  n'a  gu'aiite, 
Couberto  qu'ey  d'amous,** 


204 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


IV. 


She  wrote  the  Heptameron  here ;  it  seems  that  a 
journey  to  the  waters  was  then  less  safe  than  now- 
a-days. 

**The  first  day  of  the  month  of  September,  as  the 
baths  of  the  Pyrenees  mountains  begin  to  have 
virtue,  were  found  at  those  of  Caulderets  several 
persons,  from  France  and  Spain  as  well  as 
other  places;  some  to  drink  the  water,  others 
bathe  in  it,  others  to  take  the  mud,  which  things 
are  so  marvellous,  that  invalids  abandoned  by  the 
physicians  return  from  them  completely  cured. 
But  about  the  time  of  their  return,  there  came  on 
such  great  rains,  that  it  seemed  that  God  had  for- 
gotten the  promise  given  to  Noah  never  again  to 
destroy  the  world  by  water ;  for  all  the  cabins  and 
dwellings  of  the  said  Caulderets  were  so  filled  with 
water  that  it  became  impossible  to  live  in  them. 

''  The  French  lords  and  ladies,  thinking  to  return 
to  Tarbes  as  easily  as  they  had  come,  found  the 
little  brooks  so  swollen  that  they  could  scarcely 
ford  them.  But  when  they  came  to  pass  the 
Bearnese  Gave,  which  was  not  two  feet  deep  when 
they  first  saw  it,  they  found  it  so  large  and  im- 
petuous, that  they  made  a  circuit  to  look  for  the 
bridges,    which,   being   nothing    but   wood,    were 


Chap.  IV. 


CA  UTERETS. 


«os 


swept  away  by  the  vehemence  of  the  water.  And 
some,  thinking  to  break  the  violence  of  the  course 
by  assembling  several  together,  were  so  promptly 
swept  away,  that  those  who  would  follow  them  lost 
the  power  and  the  desire  of  going  after."  Where- 
upon they  separated,  each  one  seeking  a  way  for 
himself.  '*  Two  poor  ladies,  half  a  league  beyond 
Pierrefitte,  found  a  bear  coming  down  the  moun- 
tain, before  which  they  galloped  away  in  such  great 
haste  that  their  horses  fell  dead  under  them  at  the 
entrance  of  their  dwelling  ;  two  of  their  women,  who 
came  a  long  time  after,  told  them  that  the  bear  had 
killed  all  their  serving  men. 

*'So  while  they  are  all  at  mass,  there  comes 
into  the  church  a  man  with  nothing  on  but  his 
shirt,  fleeing  as  if  some  one  were  chasing  and  fol- 
lowing him  up.  It  was  one  of  their  companions  by 
the  name  of  Guebron,  who  recounted  to  them  how, 
as  he  was  in  a  hut  near  Pierrefitte,  three  men  came 
while  he  was  in  bed ;  but  he,  all  in  his  shirt  as  he 
w^as,  with  only  his  sword,  wounded  one  of  them  so 
that  he  remained  on  the  spot,  and,  while  the  other 
two  amused  themselves  in  gathering  up  their  com- 
panion, thought  that  he  could  not  escape  if 
not  by  flight,  as  he  was  the  least  burdened  by 
clothing. 

''  The  abbe  of  Saint-Savin  furnished  them  with 
the  best  horses  to  be  had  in  Lavedan,  good  Bearn 


2o6 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  IIL 


cloaks,  a  quantity  of  provisions,  and  pretty  com- 
panions to  lead  them  safely  in  the  mountains." 

But  it  was  necessary  to  busy  themselves  some- 
what, while  waiting  for  the  Gave  to  go  down.  In 
the  morning  they  went  to  find  Mme.  Oysille,  the 
oldest  of  the  ladies ;  they  devoutly  listened  to  the 
mass  with  her;  after  which  ''she  did  not  fail  to  ad- 
minister the  salutary  food  which  she  drew  from  the 
reading  of  the  acts  of  the  saints  and  glorious  apostles 
of  Jesus  Christ."  The  afternoon  was  employed  in 
a  very  different  fashion  :  they  went  into  a  beautiful 
meadow  along  the  river  Gave,  where  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  is  so  dense,  "  that  the  sun  could  neither 
pierce  the  shade  nor  warm  the  coolness,  and  seated 
themselves  upon  the  green  grass,  which  is  so  soft 
and  delicate  that  they  needed  neither  cushions  nor 
carpets."  And  each  in  turn  related  some  gallant 
adventure  with  details  infinitely  artless  and  singular- 
ly precise.  There  were  some  relating  to  husbands 
and  yet  more  about  monks.  The  lovely  theolo- 
gian is  the  grand-daughter  of  Boccaccio,  and  the 
grand-mother  of  La  Fontaine. 

This  shocks  us,  and  yet  is  not  shocking.  Each 
age  has  its  degree  of  decency,  which  is  prudery  for 
this  and  blackguardism  for  another.  The  Chinese 
find  our  trousers  and  close-fitting  coat-sleeves 
horribly  immodest ;  I  know  a  lady,  an  English- 
woman in  fact,  who  allows  only  two  parts  in  the 


Chap.  IV. 


CA  UTERETS, 


207 


body,  the  foot  and  the  stomach  :  every  other  word 
is  indecent ;  so  that  when  her  little  boy  has  a  fall, 
the  governess  must  say:  ''Master  Henry  has 
fallen,  Madame,  on  the  place  where  the  top  of  his 
feet  rejoins  the  bottom  of  his  stomach." 

The  habitual  ways  of  the  sixteenth  century  were 
very  different.     The  lords  lived  a  little  like  men  of 
the  people  ;  that  is  why  they  talked  somewhat  like 
men  of  the  people.     Bonnivet  and  Henri  II.  amused 
themselves  in  jumping  like  school-boys,  and  leap- 
ing over  ditches  twenty-three   feet  wide.     When 
Henry  VIII.  of  England  had  saluted  Francis  I.  on 
the  field  of  the  cloth  of  gold,  he  seized  him  in  his 
arms  and  tried  to  throw  him,  out  of  pure  sportive- 
ness;   but  the  king,  a  good  wrestler,  laid  him  low 
by  a  trip.     Fancy  to-day  the  Emperor  Napoleon  at 
Tilsitt  receiving  the  Emperor  Alexander  in  this 
fashion.     The  ladies  were  obliged  to  be  robust  and 
agile  as  our  peasants.     To  go  to  an  evening  party 
they  had  to  mount  on  horseback  ;   Margaret,  when 
in  Spain,  fearful  of  being  detained,  made  in  eight 
days  the  stages  for  which  a  good  horseman  would 
have  required  fifteen  days ;   one  had,  too,  to  guard 
one's  self  against  violence ;  once  she  had  need  of 
her  two  fists  and  all  her  nails  against  Bonnivet.     In 
the  midst  of  such  manners,  free  talk  was   only  the 
natural  talk ;  the  ladies  heard  it  every  day  at  table, 
and  adorned  with  the  finest  commentaries.      Bran- 


I 


208 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III 


t6me  will  describe  for  you  the  cup  from  which 
certain  lords  made  them  drink,  and  Cellini  will  re- 
late you  the  conversation  that  was  held  with  the 
Duchess  of  Ferrara.  A  milkmaid  now-a-days 
would  be  ashamed  of  it.  Students  among  them- 
selves, even  when  they  are  tipsy,  will  scarce  ven- 
ture what  the  ladies  of  honor  of  Catherine  de 
Medicis  sang  at  the  top  of  their  voice  and  with  all 
their  heart.  Pardon  our  poor  Margaret ;  relatively 
she  is  decent  and  delicate,  and  then  consider  that 
two  hundred  years  hence,  you  also,  my  dear  sir 
and  madam,  you  will  perhaps  appear  like  very 
blackguards. 

V. 

Sometimes  here,  after  a  broiling  day,  the  clouds 
gather,  the  air  is  stifling,  one  feels  fairly  ill,  and  a 
storm  bursts  forth.  There  was  such  an  one  last 
night.  Each  moment  the  heavens  opened,  cleft 
by  an  immense  flash,  and  the  vault  of  darkness 
lifted  itself  entire  like  a  tent.  The  dazzling  light 
marked  out  the  limits  of  the  various  cultures  and  the 
forms  of  the  trees  at  the  distance  of  a  league.  The 
glaciers  flamed  with  a  bluish  glimmer ;  the  jagged 
peaks  suddenly  lifted  themselves  upon  the  horizon 
like  an  army  of  spectres.  The  gorge  was  illu- 
mined in  its  very  depths  ;  its  heaped-up  blocks,  its 
trees  hooked  on  to  the  rocks,  its  torn  ravines,  its 


■f 


Chap.  IV. 


CAUTERETS. 


209 


foaming  Gave,  were  seen  under  a  livid  whiteness, 
and  vanished  like  the  fleeting  visions  of   an  un- 
known and  tortured  world.     Soon  the  voice  of  the 
thunder  rolled  in  the  gorges ;    the  clouds  that  bore 
it  crept  midway  along  the  mountain  side,  and  came 
into   collision  among  the  rocks  ;  the  report  burst 
out  like   a  discharge  of  artillery.     The  wind  rose 
and  the  rain  came  on.     The  inclined  plane  of  the 
summits  opened  up  under  its  squalls ;   the  funeral 
drapery  of  the  pines  clung  to  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tain.    A  creeping  plain  came  out  from  the  rocks 
and  trees.     The  long  streaks  of  rain  thickened  the 
air ;  under  the  flashes  you  saw  the  water  streaming, 
flooding  the  summits,  descending  the  two  slopes, 
sliding  in  sheets  over  the  rocks,  and  from  all  sides 
in  hurried  waves  running   to  the  Gave.      In  the 
morning  the  roads  were  cut  up  with  sloughs,  the 
trees  hung  by  their  bleeding  roots,  great  patches 
of  earth  had  fallen  away,  and  the  torrent  was  a 


river. 


'* 

M 


Chap.  V. 


SAINTS  A  VllSr, 


211 


> 


CHAPTER    V. 

SAINT-SA  VIN. 

Upon  a  hill,  at  the  end  of  a  road,  are  the  re- 
mains  of  the  abbey  of  Saint-Savin.  The  old 
church  was,  they  say,  built  by  Charlemagne ;  the 
stones,  eaten  and  burned,  are  crumbling ;  the  dis- 
jointed flags  are  incrusted  with  moss  ;  from  the 
garden  the  eye  takes  in  the  valley,  brown  in  the 
evening  light ;  the  winding  Gave  already  lifts  into 
the  air  its  trail  of  pale  smoke. 

It  was  sweet  here  to  be  a  monk ;  it  is  in  such 
places  that  the  Imitatio7i  should  be  read  ;  in  such 
places  was  it  written.  For  a  sensitive  and  noble 
nature,  a  convent  was  then  the  sole  refuge;  all 
around  wounded  and  repelled  it. 

Around  what  a  horrible  world !  Brigand  lords 
who  plunder  travellers  and  butcher  each  other ;  ar- 
tisans and  soldiers  who  stuff  themselves  with  meat 
and  yoke  themselves  together  like  brutes  ;  pea- 
sants whose  huts  they  burn,  whose  wives  they 
violate,  who  out  of  despair  and  hunger  slip  away 
to  tumult.  No  remembrance  of  good,  nor  hope  of 
better.  How  sweet  it  is  to  renounce  action,  compa- 
ny, speech,  to  hide  one  s  self,  forget  outside  things, 


and  to  listen,  in  security  and  solitude,  to  the  divine 
voices  that,  like  collected  springs,  murmur  peace- 
fully in  the  depths  of  the  heart ! 

How  easy  is  it  here  to  forget  the  world ! 
Neither  books,  nor  news,  nor  science ;  no  one 
travels  and  no  one  thinks.  This  valley  is  the 
whole  universe ;  from  time  to  time  a  peasant 
passes,  or  a  man-at-arms.  A  moment  more  and  he 
is  gone ;  the  mind  has  retained  no  more  trace  of 
him  than  the  empty  road.  Every  morning  the 
eyes  find  again  the  great  woods  asleep  upon 
the  mountain's  brow,  and  the  layers  of  clouds 
stretched  out  on  the  edge  of  the  sky.  The  rocks 
light  up,  the  summit  of  the  forests  trembles  beneath 
the  rising  breeze,  the  shadow  changes  at  the  foot 
of  the  oaks,  and  the  mind  takes  on  the  calm  and 
'  the  monotony  of  these  slow  sights  by  which  if 
is  nourished.  Meanwhile  the  responses  of  the 
monks  drone  confusedly  in  the  chapel ;  then  their 
measured  tread  resounds  in  the  high  corridors. 
Each  day  the  same  hours  bring  back  the  same  im- 
pressions and  the  same  images.  The  soul  empties 
itself  of  worldly  ideas,  and  the  heavenly  dream, 
which  begins  to  flow  within,  little  by  little  heaps 
up  the  silent  wave  that  is  going  to  fill  it. 

Far  from  it  are  science  and  treatises  on  doctrine. 
They  drain  the  stream  instead  of  swelling  it.  Will 
so  many  words  augment  peace  and  inward  tender- 


212 


THE   VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


ness  ?  "  The  kingdom  of  God  consisteth  not  in 
word,  but  in  power."  The  heart  must  be  moved, 
tears  must  flow,  the  arms  must  open  toward  an 
unseen  place,  and  the  sudden  trouble  will  not  be  the 
work  of  the  lips,  but  the  touch  of  the  hand  divine. 
This  hand  it  is  which  doth  '*  lift  up  the  humble 
mind ;  "  this  it  is  which  teaches  ''  without  noise  of 
words,  without  confusion  of  opinions,  without  am- 
bition of  honor,  without  the  scuffling  of  argu- 
ments." A  light  penetrates,  and  all  at  once  the 
eyes   see   as   it  were   a   new   heaven  and  a  new 

earth. 

The  men  of  the  age  perceive  in  its  events  only 
the  events  themselves ;  the  solitary  discovers  be- 
hind the  veil  of  things  created  the  presence  and 
the  will  of  God.  He  it  is  who  by  the  sun  warms 
the  earth,  and  by  the  rain  refreshes  it.  He  it  is 
who  sustains  the  mountains  and  envelops  them  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun  in  the  repose  of  night.  The 
heart  feels  everywhere,  around  and  inside  of  things, 
an  immense  goodness,  like  a  vague  ocean  of  light 
which  penetrates  and  animates  the  world;  to  this 
goodness  it  intrusts  and  abandons  itself,  like  a  child 
that  drops  asleep  at  evening  on  its  mother's  knees. 
A  hundred  times  a  day  divine  things  become  pal- 
pable to  it.  The  light  streams  through  the  morn- 
ing mist,  chaste  as  the  brow  of  the  virgin ;  the 
stars  shine  like  celestial  eyes,  and  yonder,  when  the 


Chap.  V. 


SALNT-SA  VlJSr. 


213 


sun  goes  down,  the  clouds  kneel  at  the   brink  of 
heaven,  like  a  blazing  choir  of  seraphim. 

The  heathen  were  indeed  blind  in  their  thoughts 
upon  the  grandeur  of  nature.     What  is  our  earth, 
(but  a  narrow  pass    between  two  eternal  worlds ! 
Down  there,  beneath  our  feet,  are  the  damned  and 
their  pains;    they  howl    in  their  caverns  and  the 
earth  trembles ;  without  the  sign  of  God,  these  walls 
would  to-morrow  be  swallowed  up  in  their  abyss ; 
they  often  come  out  thence  by  the  bare  precipices ; 
the  passers-by  hear  their  shouts  of  laughter  in  the 
cascades ;  behind  those  gnarled  beeches,  glimpses 
have  been  caught  of  their  grimacing  countenances, 
their  eyes  of  flame,  and  more  than  one  herdsman, 
wandering  at  night  towards  their  haunt,  has  been 
found  in  the  morning  with  hair  on  end  and  twisted 
neck.   But  up  there,  in  the  azure,  above  the  crystal, 
are  the  angels ;  many  a  time  has  the  vault  opened, 
and,  in  a  long  trail  of  light,  the  saints  have  appear- 
ed more  radiant  than  molten  silver,  suddenly  visible, 
then  all  at  once  vanished.     A  monk  saw  them ;  the 
last  abbot  was  informed  by  them,  in  a  vision,  of  the 
spring  which  healed  his  diseases.     Another,   long 
time  ago,  hunting  wild  beasts  one  day,  saw  a  great 
stag  stop  before  him  with  eyes  filled  with  tears ; 
when  he  had  looked,  he  saw  upon  its  antlers  the 
cross  of  Jesus  Christ,  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  on  his 
return  to  the  convent,  lived  for  thirty  years  doing 


214 


THE   VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III 


penance  in  his  cell,  without  any  desire  to  leave  it. 
Another,  a  very  young  man,  who  had  gone  into  a 
forest  of  pines,  heard  far  off  a  nightingale  which 
sang  marvellously ;  he  drew  near  in  astonishment, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  everything  was  trans- 
fio-ured  ;  the  brooks  flowed  as  it  were  a  long  stream 
of   tears,  and    again  seemed    full    of   pearls ;  the 
violet  fringes  of  the  firs  shone  magnificently,  like  a 
stole,  upon  their  funereal  trunks.     The   rays   ran 
along  the  leaves,  empurpled  and  azured  as  if  by 
cathedral   windows;    flowers   of    gold    and   velvet 
opened  their  bleeding  hearts  in  the  midst  of  the 
rocks.     He  approached  the  bird,  which  he  could 
not  see  among  the  branches,  but  which  sang  like 
the  finest  organ,  with  notes  so  piercing  and  so  ten- 
der,  that  his  heart  was  at  once  torn  and  melted. 
He  saw  nothing  more  of  what  was  about  him,  and 
it  seemed  to   him  that  his  soul  detached  itself  from 
his  breast,  and  went  away  to  the  bird,  and  mingled 
itself  with  the  voice  which  rose  ever  vibrating  more 
and  more  in  a  song  of  ecstasy  and  anguish,  as  if  it  had 
been  the  inner  voice  of  Christ  to  his  Father  when  he 
was  dying  on  the  cross.  When  he  returned  towards 
the  convent,  he  was  astonished  to  find  that  the 
walls,  which  were  quite  new,  had  become  brown  as 
through  aee,  that  the  little  lindens   in  the  garden 
were   now   great   trees,  that   no  face  among  the 
monks  was  familiar  to  him,  and  that  no  one  remem- 


Chap.  V. 


SAINTS  A  VIN. 


215 


bered  to  have  seen  him.  Finally  an  infirm  old 
monk  called  to  mind  that  in  former  times  they  had 
talked  to  him  of  a  novice  who  had  gone,  a  hundred 
r  years  before,  into  the  pine  forest,  but  who  had  not 
come  back,  so  that  no  one  had  ever  known  what 
had  happened  to  him.  Thus  transported  and  for- 
o-otten  will  those  live  who  shall  hear  the  inner 
voices.  God  envelops  us,  and  we  have  only  to 
abandon  ourselves  to  him  in  order  to  feel  him. 

For  he  does  not  hold  communion  through  out- 
side things  only ;  he  is  within  us,  and  our  thoughts 
are  his  words.    He  who  retires  within  himself,  who 
listens  no  more  to   the  news  of  this  world,  who 
effaces  from  his  mind  its  reasonings   and  imagina- 
tions,   and  who   holds   himself  in   expectancy,   in 
silence  and    solitude,  sees  little  by  little  a  thought 
rise  in  him  which  is  not  his  own,  which  comes  and 
goes  without  his  will,  and,  whatever  he  may  will, 
which  fills   and   enchants   him,   like    those  words, 
heard  in  a  dream,    which  make   tranquil  the  soul 
with  their  mysterious  song.      The  soul  listens  and 
no  longer  perceives  the  flight  of  the  hours ;  all  its 
powers  are  arrested,  and  its  movements  are  nothing 
but  the  impressions  which  come  to  it  from  above. 
Christ  speaks,  it  answers  ;  it  asks,  and  he  teaches  ; 
it  is  afflicted,  and  he  consoles.     ''  My  son,  now  will 
I  teach  thee  the  way   of  peace   and  true  liberty. 
O  Lord,  I  beseech  thee,  do  as  thou  sayest,  for  this 


2l6 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  V. 


SAINT-SA  VIN, 


217 


is  delightful  for  me  to  hear.      Be  desirouSy  my  son, 
to  do  the  will  of  another  rather  tha7t  thme  own, 
choose  always  to  have  less  rather  than  more.     Seek 
always  the  lowest  place,  a7id  to  be  inferior  to  every 
one.     Wish  always,  and  pray,  that  the  will  of  God 
may  be  wholly  fulfilled    in    thee.     Behold  such  a 
man  entereth  within  the  borders  of  peace  and  rest. 
O   Lord,  this  short  discourse  of  thine  containeth 
within    itself   much   perfection.     It  is  little   to   be 
spoken,  but  full  of  meaning,  and  abundant  in  fruit." 
How  languid  is  every  thing  alongside  of  this  divine 
company!    How  all  which    departs  from  it  is  un- 
sightly !  'When  Jesus  is  present,  all  is  well,  and  noth- 
ing  seems  difficult :  but  when  Jesus  is  absent  every- 
thing  is  hard.     When  Jesus  speaks  not  inwardly  to 
us,  all  other  comfort  is  nothing  worth ;  but  if  Jesus 
speak  but  one  word,  we  feel  great  consolation.   How 
dry  and  hard  art  thou  without  Jesus  !     How  foolish 
and  vain,  if  thou   desire  anything  out  of  Jesus  !    Is 
not  this  a  greater  loss  than  if  thou  shouldest  lose  the 
whole  world  ?    He  that  findeth  Jesus,  findeth  a  good 
treasure,  yea,  a  Good  above  all  good.    And  he  that 
loseth  Jesus,  loseth  much  indeed,  yea,  more  than 
the  whole  world  !  Most  poor  is  he  who  liveth  with- 
out Jesus ;  and  he  most  rich  who  is  well  with  Jesus. 
It  is  matter  of  great  skill  to  know  how  to  hold  con- 
verse with  Jesus ;  and  to  know  how  to  keep  Jesus,  a 
point  of  great  wisdom.  Be  thou  humble  and  peace 


able,  and  Jesus  will  be  with  thee.     Be  devout  and 

quiet,  and  Jesus  will  stay  with  thee.     Thou  mayest 

soon  drive  away  Jesus  and  lose  his  favor  if  thou  wilt 

turn  aside  to  outward  things.  And  if  thou  shouldest 

drive  him  from  thee,  and  lose  him,  unto  whom  wilt 

thou  flee,  and  whom  wilt  thou  seek  for  thy  friend  ? 

Without  a  friend  thou  canst  not  well  live ;  and  if 

Jesus  be  not  above  all  a  friend  to  thee,  thou  shalt 

be  sad  and  desolate." — *'  Behold  !    My  God  and  all 

things."    What  can  I  wish  more,  and  what  happier 

thing  can  I  long  for?    "My  God,  and  all  things." 

To  him  that  understandeth,  enough  is  said ;  and  to 

repeat  it  often  is  delightful  to  him  that  loveth. 

Some    died   of   this   love,    lost   in   ecstasies   or 

drowned  in  a  divine  languor.      These  are  the  great 

poets  of  the  middle  ages. 
19 


i 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GA  VARNIE, 
I. 

From  Luz  to  Gavarnie  is  eighteen  miles. 

It  is  enjoined  upon  every  living  creature  able  to 
mount  a  horse,  a  mule,  or  any  quadruped  whatever, 
to  visit  Gavarnie ;  in  default  of  other  beasts,  he 
should,  putting  aside  all  shame,  bestride  an  ass. 
Ladies  and  convalescents  are  taken  there  in  sedan- 
chairs. 

Otherwise,  think  what  a  figure  you  will  make  on 

your  return. 

"  You  come  from  the    Pyrenees  ;    you  ve   seen 

Gavarnie  ?  " 


<( 


No. 


» 


What  then  did  you  go  to  the  Pyrenees  for  ? 

You  hang  your  head,  and  your  friend  triumphs, 
especially  if  he  was  bored  at  Gavarnie.  You  un- 
dergo a  description  of  Gavarnie  after  the  last 
edition  of  the  guide-book.  Gavarnie  is  a  sublime 
sight ;  tourists  go  sixty  miles  out  of  their  way  to 
see  it ;  the  Duchess  d'Angouleme  had  herself  carried 
to  the  furthest  rocks ;  Lord  Bute,  when  he  saw  it  for 
the  first  time,  cried  :  *'  If  I  were  now  at  the  ex- 
tremity of   India,  and  suspected  the  existence  of 


1^ 


Chap.  VI. 


GA  VARNIE. 


219 


what  I  see  at  this  moment,  I  should  immediately 
leave  in  order  to  enjoy  and  admire  it !  "  You  are 
overwhelmed  with  quotations  and  supercilious 
smiles;  you  are  convicted  of  laziness,  of  dulness 
of  mind,  and,  as  certain  English  travellers  say,  of* 
uncBsthetic  insensibility. 

There  are  but  two  resources :  to  learn  a  descrip- 
tion by  heart,  or  to  make  the  journey.  I  have  made 
the  journey,  and  am  going  to  give  the  description. 


11. 

We  leave  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  by 
the  road  to  Scia,  in  the  fog,  without  seeing  at  first 
anything  beyond  great  confused  forms  of  trees  and 
rocks.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  we  hear 
along  the  pathway  a  noise  of  sharp  cries  drawing 
near :  it  was  a  funeral  procession  coming  from  Scia. 
Two  men  bore  a  small  coffin  under  a  white  shroud  ; 
behind  came  four  herdsmen  in  long  cloaks  and 
brown  capuchons,  silent,  with  bent  heads ;  four 
women  followed  in  black  mantles.  It  was  they 
who  uttered  those  monotonous  and  piercing  lamen- 
tations; one  knew  not  if  they  were  wailing  or 
praying.  They  walked  with  long  steps  through 
the  cold  mist,  without  stopping  or  looking  at  any 
one,  and  were  going  to  bury  the  poor  body  in  the 
cemetery  at  Luz. 


2  20 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


At  Scia  the  road  passes  over  a  small  bridge 
very  high  up,  which  commands  another  bridge, 
gray  and  abandoned.  The  double  tier  of  arches 
bends  gracefully  over  the  blue  torrent ;  meanwhile 
a  pale  light  already  floats  in  the  diaphanous  mist;  a 
golden  gauze  undulates  above  the  Gave;  the 
aerial  veil  grows  thin  and  will  soon  vanish. 

Nothing  can  convey  the  idea  of  this  light,  so 
youthful,  timid  and  smiling,  which  glitters  like  the 
bluish  wings  of  a  dragon-fly  that  is  pursued  and  is 
taken  captive  in  a  net  of  fog.  Beneath,  the  boiling 
water  is  engulfed  in  a  narrow  conduit  and  leaps 
like  a  mill-race.  The  column  of  foam,  thirty  feet 
high,  falls  with  a  furious  din,  and  its  glaucous  waves, 
heaped  together  in  the  deep  ravine,  dash  against 
each  other  and  are  broken  upon  a  line  of  fallen 
rocks.  Other  enormous  rocks,  debris  of  the  same 
mountain,  hang  above  the  road,  their  squared  heads 
crowned  with  brambles  for  hair  ;  ranged  in  impreg- 
nable line,  they  seem  to  watch  the  torments  of  the 
Gave,  which  their  brothers  hold  beneath  them^ 
selves  crushed  and  subdued. 


IIL 

We  turn  a  second  bridge  and  enter  the  plain  of 
Gedres,  verdant  and  cultivated,  where  the  hay  is  in 
cocks ;  they  are  harvesting ;  our  horses  walk  be- 


Chap.  VI. 


GA  VARNIE. 


32X 


tween  two  hedges  of  hazel;  we  go  along  by 
orchards ;  but  the  mountain  is  ever  near ;  the  guide 
shows  us  a  rock  three  times  the  height  of  a  man, 
which,  two  years  ago,  rolled  down  and  demolished 

a  house. 

We  encounter  several  singular  caravans  :  a  band 
of  young,  priests  in  black  hats,  black  gloves,  black 
cassocks  tucked  up,  black  stockings,  very  apparent, 
novices  in  horsemanship  who,  bound  at  every  step, 
like  the  Gave ;  a  big,  jolly  round  man,  in  a  sedan- 
chair,  his  hands  crossed  over  his  belly,  who  looks 
on  us  with  a  paternal  air,  and  reads  his  news- 
paper ;  three  ladies  of  sufficiently  ripe  age,  very 
slender,  very  lean,  very  stiff,  who,  for  dignity's 
sake,  set  their  beasts  on  a  trot  as  we  draw  near 
them.  The  cicisbeo  is  a  bony  cartilaginous  gentle- 
man, fixed  perpendicularly  on  his  saddle  like  a  tele- 
graph-pole. We  hear  a  harsh  clucking,  as  of  a 
choked  hen,  and  we  recognize  the  English  tongue. 

As  for  the  French  nation,  it  is  but  poorly  repre- 
sented at  Gedres.  First  appears  a  long,  mouldy 
custom-house  officer,  who  indorses  the  permission 
to  pass  of  the  horses  ;  with  his  once  green  coat  the 
poor  man  had  the  air  of  having  sojourned  a  week 
in  the  river.  No  sooner  has  he  let  us  go,  than  a 
blackguard  band,  boys  and  girls,  pounces  upon  us  ; 
some  stretch  out  their  hands,  others  wish  to  sell 
stones  to  us ;  they  motion  to  the  guide  to  stop ; 


823 


TJIE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ,  Book  III. 


Chap.  VI. 


GA  VARNIE, 


223 


they  claim  the  travellers ;  two  or  three  hold  the  bridle 
of  each  horse,  and  all  cry  in  chorus :  -  The  grotto  ! 
the  grotto  !  "  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  resign 
ourselves  and  see  the  grotto. 

A  servant  opens  a  door,  makes  us  descend  two 
staircases,  throws  a  lump  of  earth  In  passing  into  a 
lagune,  to  awaken  the  sleeping  fish,  takes  half-a- 
dozen  steps  over  a  couple  of  planks.     ''  Well,  the 
grotto  ?"—*' Behold    it.     Monsieur."      We   see   a 
streamlet   of  water  between  two  rocks  overhung 
with  ash-trees.     ''  Is  that  all  ?  "     She  does  not  un- 
derstand, opens  her  eyes  wide  and  goes  away.     We 
ascend  again  and  read  this  inscription :    The  charge 
for  seeing  the  grotto  is  ten  cents.     The  matter  is  all 
explained.     The  peasants  of  the  Pyrenees  are  not 
wanting  in  brains. 

IV. 

Beyond  Gedres  is  a  wild  valley  called  Chaos, 
which  is  well  named.  After  quarter  of  an  hours 
journey  there,  the  trees  disappear,  then  the  juniper 
and  the  box,  and  finally  the  moss  ;  the  Gave  is  no 
longer  seen ;  all  noises  are  hushed.  It  is  a  dead 
solitude  peopled  with  wrecks.  Three  avalanches 
of  rocks  and  crushed  flint  have  come  down  from  the 
summit  to  the  very  bottom.  The  horrid  tide,  high 
and  a  quarter  of  a  league  in  length,  spreads  out 
like  waves  its  myriads  of  sterile  stones,  and  the  in- 


\ 


clined  sheet  seems  still  to  glide  towards  inundating 
the  gorge.  These  stones  are  shattered  and  pulver- 
ized ;  their  living  fractures  and  thin  harsh  points 
wound  the  eye ;  they  are  still  bruising  and  crushing 
each  other.  Not  a  bush,  not  a  spear  of  grass  ;  the 
arid  grayish  train  burns  beneath  a  sun  of  brass;  its 
debris  are  scorched  to  a  dull  hue,  as  in  a  furnace. 
A  ruined  mountain  is  more  desolate  than  any 
human  ruin. 

A  hundred  paces  further  on,  the  aspect  of  the 
valley  becomes  formidable.    Troops  of  mammoths 
and   mastodons   in  stone   lie   crouching  over  the 
eastern  declivity,  one  above  another,  and  heaped 
up  over  the  whole   slope.     These  colossal  ridges 
shine   with  a  tawny  hue  like  iron  rust;  the  most 
enormous  of  them  drink  the  water  of  the  river  at 
their  base.     They  look  as  if  warming  their  bronzed 
skin  in  the  sun,  and  sleep,  turned  over,  stretched 
out  on  their  side,  resting  in  all  attitudes,  and  always 
gigantic  and   frightful.     Their  deformed  paws  are 
curled   up;    their  bodies  half  buried  in  the  earth; 
their    monstrous    backs    rest   one   upon   another. 
When  you  enter  into  the  midst  of  the  prodigious 
band,  the  horizon  disappears,  the  blocks  rise  fifty 
feet  into  the  air ;  the  road  winds  painfully  among  the 
overhanging   masses  ;  men   and   horses  seem  but 
dwarfs ;  these  rusted  edges  mount  in  stages  to  the 
very   summit,  and  the  dark  hanging  army  seems 


224 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


ready  to  fall  on  the  human  insects  which  come  to 

trouble  its  sleep. 

Once  upon  a  time,  the  mountain,  in   a  paroxysm 
of  fever,  shook  its  summits  like  a  cathedral  that  is 
falling  in.      A  few  points  resisted,  and  their  embat- 
tled turrets  are  drawn  out  in  line  on  the  crest ;  but 
their  layers  are  dislocated,  their  sides  creviced,  their 
points  jagged.     The  whole  shattered  ridge  totters. 
Beneath  them  the  rock  fails  suddenly  in  a  living 
and  still  bleeding  wound.     The  splinters  are  lower 
down,  strewn    over    the   declivity.     The    tumbled 
rocks  are  sustained  one  upon  another,  and  man  to- 
day passes  in  safety  amidst  the  disaster.    But  what 
a  day  was  that  of  the  ruin  !     It  is  not  very  ancient, 
perhaps  of  the  sixth  century,  and  the  year  of  the 
terrible  earthquake  told  of  by  Gregory  of  Tours. 
If  a  man  could  without   perishing  have  seen  the 
summits  split,  totter  and  fall,  the  two  seas   of  rock 
come  bounding  into  the  gorge,  meet  one  another 
and  grind  each  other  amidst  a  shower  of  sparks, 
he  would  have  looked  upon  the  grandest  spectacle 
ever  seen  by  human  eyes. 

On  the  west,  a  perpendicular  mole,  crannied  like 
an  old  ruin,  lifts  itself  straight  up  towards  the  sky. 
A  leprosy  of  yellowish  moss  has  incrusted  its  pores, 
and  has  clothed  it  all  over  with  a  sinister  livery. 
This  livid  robe  upon  this  parched  stone  has  a  splen- 
did effect.      Nothine  is  uglier  than  the  chalky  flints 


I 


\ 


X 

\ 


Chap.  VI. 


GA  VARNIE, 


225 


\\ 


that  are  drawn  from  the  quarry ;  just  dug  up,  they 
seem  cold  and  damp  in  their  whitish  shroud ;  they 
are  not  used  to  the  sun ;  they  make  a  contrast  with 
the  rest.     But  the  rock  that  has  lived  in  the  air  for 
"ten  thousand  years,  where  the  light  has  every  day 
laid  on  and  melted  its  metallic  tints,  is  the  friend  of 
the  sun,  and  carries  its  mantle  upon  its  shoulders ; 
it  has  no  need  of  a  garment  of  verdure  ;  if  it  suf- 
fers from  parasitic  vegetations,  it  sticks  them  to  its 
sides   and  imprints  them  with   its    colors.      The 
threatening  tones  with  which  it  clothes  itself  suits 
the  free  sky,    the  naked  landscape,    the  powerful 
heat  that  environs  it ;  it  is  alive  like  a  plant ;  only 
it  is  of  another  age,  one  more  severe  and  stronger 
than  that  in  which  we  vegetate. 

V. 

Gavarnie  is  a  very  ordinary  village,  command- 
ing a  view  of  the  amphitheatre  we  are  come  to  see. 
After  you  have  left  it,  it  is  still  necessary  to  go  three 
miles  through  a  melancholy  plain,  half  buried  in 
sand  by  the  winter  inundations ;  the  waters  of  the 
Gave  are  muddy  and  dull;  a  cold  wind  whisdes 
from  the  amphitheatre ;  the  glaciers,  strewn  with 
mud  and  stones,  are  stuck  to  the  declivity  like 
patches  of  dirty  plaster.  The  mountains  are  bald 
and  ravined  by  cascades ;  black  cones  of  scattered 


10 


226 


THE   VALLEY  OF  LUZ, 


Book  III. 


Chap.  VI. 


GA  VARNIE. 


227 


firs  climb  them  like  routed  soldiers  ;  a  meagre  and 
wan  turf  wretchedly  clothes  their  mutilated  heads. 
The  horses  ford  the  Gave  stumblingly,  chilled  by 
the  water  coming  from  the  snows.  In  this  wasted 
solitude  you  meet,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  most  smiling 
parterre.  A  throng  of  the  lovely  iris  crowds  itself 
into  the  bed  of  a  dried  torrent :  the  sun  stripes 
with  rays  of  gold  their  velvety  petals  of  tender 
blue ;  the  harvest  of  plumes  winds  with  the  sinuos- 
ities of  the  bank,  and  the  eye  follows  over  the  whole 
plain  the  folds  of  the  rivulet  of  flowers. 

We  climb  a  last  eminence,  sown  with  iris  and  with 
stones.  There  is  a  hut  where  you  breakfast  and 
leave  the  horses.  You  arm  yourself  with  a  stout  stick, 
and  descend  upon  the  glaciers  of  the  amphitheatre. 

These  glaciers  are  very  ugly,  very  dirty,  very 
uneven,  very  slippery  ;  at  every  step  you  run  the 
risk  of  falling,  and  if  you  fall,  it  is  on  sharp  stones 
or  into  deep  holes.  They  look  very  like  heaps 
of  old  plaster-work,  and  those  who  have  admired 
them  must  have  a  stock  of  admiration  for  sale. 
The  water  has  pierced  them  so  that  you  walk  upon 
bridges  of  snow.  These  bridges  have  the  appear- 
ance of  kitchen  air-holes ;  the  water  is  swallowed 
up  in  a  very  low  archway,  and,  when  you  look 
closely,  you  get  a  distinct  sight  of  a  black  hole. 
An  Englishman  who  wished  to  enjoy  the  view,  al- 
lowed himself  to  fall,  and  came  out  half  dead, ''  with 


the  rapidity  of  a  trout."     We  left  such  experiments 
to  the  trout  and  the  English. 

VI. 

After  the  glaciers  we  find  a  sloping  esplanade ; 
we  climb  for  ten  minutes  bruising  our  feet  upon  frag- 
ments of  sharp  rock.  Since  leaving  the  hut  we  have 
not  lifted  our  eyes,  in  order  to  reserve  for  our- 
selves an  unbroken  sensation.  Here  at  last  we  look. 

A  wall  of  granite  crowned  with  snow  hollows  it- 
self before  us  in  a  gigantic  amphitheatre.  This 
amphitheatre  is  twelve  hundred  feet  high,  nearly 
three  miles  in  circumference,  three  tiers  of  perpen- 
dicular walls,  and  in  each  tier  thousands  of  steps. 
The  valley  ends  there ;  the  wall  is  a  single  block 
and  impregnable.  The  other  summits  might  fall, 
but  its  massive  layers  would  not  be  moved. 
The  mind  is  overwhelmed  by  the  idea  of  a  stability 
that  cannot  be  shaken  and  an  assured  eternity. 
There  is  the  boundary  of  two  countries  and  two 
races ;  this  it  is  that  Roland  wanted  to  break, 
when  with  a  sword-stroke  he  opened  a  breach  in 
the  summit.  But  the  immense  wound  disappeared 
in  the  immensity  of  the  unconquered  wall.  Three 
sheets  of  snow  are  spread  out  over  the  three  tiers 
of  layers.  The  sun  falls  with  all  its  force  upon 
this  virginal  robe  without  being  able  to  make  it 


228 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  IIL 


Chap.  VI. 


GA  VARNIE, 


229 


shine.     It  preserves  its  dead  whiteness.     All  this 
grandeur  is  austere ;  the  air  is  chilled  beneath  the 
noonday  rays;  great,  damp  shadows  creep  along 
the  foot  of  the   walls.    It  is  the  everlasting  winter 
and  the  nakedness  of  the  desert.     The  sole  inhabi- 
tants are  the  cascades  assembled  to  form  the  Gave. 
The  streamlets  of  water  come  by  thousands  from 
the  highest  layer,  leap  from  step  to  step,  cross  their 
stripes  of  foam,  wind,   unite  and  fall   by  a  dozen 
brooks  that  slide  from  the  last  layer  in  flaky  streaks 
to  lose  themselves  in  the  glaciers  of  the  bottom. 
The  thirteenth  cascade  on  the  left  is  twelve  hundred 
and  sixty-six  feet  high.     It  falls  slowly,  like  a  drop- 
ping cloud,  or  the  unfolding  of  a  muslin  veil ;  the 
air  softens  its  fall;  the    eye  follows    complacently 
the  graceful  undulation   of  the  beautiful  airy  veil. 
It  glides  the  length  of  the  rock,  and  seems  to  float 
rather  than  to  fall.     The  sun  shines,  through  its 
plume,  with  the  softest  and  loveliest  splendor.    It 
reaches  the  bottom  like  a  bouquet  of  slender  waving 
feathers,  and  springs  backward  in  a  silver   dust; 
the  fresh  and  transparent  mist    swings   about  the 
rock  it  bathes,  and  its   rebounding  train   mounts 
lightly  along  the  courses.     No  stir  in  the  air ;  no 
noise,  no  living  creature  in  this  solitude.    You  hear 
only  the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  cascades,   re- 
sembling the  rustle  of  the  leaves  that  the  wind  stirs 
in  the  forest. 


\\ 


On  our  return,  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  door 
of  the  hut.  It  is  a  poor,  squat  little  house,  heavily 
supported  upon  thick  walls  ;  the  knotty  joists  of 
the  ceiling  retain  their  bark.  It  is  indeed  necessary 
that  it  should  be  able  to  stand  out  alone  against  the 
snows  of  winter.  You  find  everywhere  the  im- 
print of  the  terrible  months  it  has  gone  through. 
Two  dead  fir-trees  stand  erect  at  the  door.  The 
garden,  three  feet  square,  is  defended  by  enormous 
walls  of  piled-up  slates.  The  low  and  black  stable 
leaves  neither  foot-hold  nor  entry  for  the  winds.  A 
lean  colt  was  seeking  a  little  grass  among  the 
stones.  A  small  bull,  with  surly  air,  looked  at  us 
out  of  the  sides  of  his  eyes ;  the  animals,  the 
trees  and  the  site,  wore  a  threatening  or  melan- 
choly aspect.  But  in  the  clefts  of  a  rock  were 
growing  some  admirable  buttercups,  lustrous  and 
splendid,  which  looked    as  if  painted  by  a  ray  of 

sunshine. 

At  the  village  we  met  our  companions  of  the 
journey  who  had  sat  down  there.  The  good 
tourists  get  fatigued,  stop  ordinarily  at  the  inn, 
take  a  substantial  dinner,  have  a  chair  brought  to 
the  door,  and  digest  while  looking  at  the  amphi- 
theatre, which  from  there  appears  about  as  high 
as  a  house.  After  this  they  return,  praising  the 
sublime  sight,  and  very  glad  that  they  have  come 
to  the  Pyrenees. 


Chap.  VII.       BERGONZ.—PIC  DU  MIDI, 


231 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  BERGONZ.—THE  PIC  DU  MIDI 

I. 

We  ought  to  be  useful  to  our  fellow-mortals  ; 
I  have  climbed  the  Bergonz  in  order  to  have  at 
least  one  ascent  to  tell  about. 

A   stony,    zigzag  pathway  excoriates  the  green 
mountain    with     its     whitish     track.       The    view 
changes  with  every  turn.     Above  and  below  us  are 
meadows  with  girls  making  hay,  and  little  houses 
stuck  to  the  declivity  like  swallows'  nests.     Lower 
down,  an  immense  pit  of  black  rock,  to  which  from 
all  sides  hasten  streams  of  silver.     The  higher  up 
we   are,  the   more  the  valleys  are  contracted  and 
fade  from   sight;    the  more   the   gray   mountains 
enlarge  and  spread  themselves  in  all  their  huge- 
ness.    Suddenly,    beneath   the    burnino-   sun,    the 
perspective   becomes  confused;    we  feel    the  cold 
and  damp  touch   of  some  unknown  and   invisible 
being.     A  moment  after,  the  air  clears  up,  and  we 
perceive  behind  us  the  white,  rounded  back  of  a 
beautiful  cloud  fleeing  into  the  distance,  and  whose 
shadow  glides  lightly  over  the  slope.     The  useful 


) 


herbage  soon  disappears ;  scorched  mosses, 
thousands  of  rhododendrons  clothe  the  barren 
escarpments  ;  the  road  is  damaged  by  the  force  of 
the  hidden  springs  ;  it  is  encumbered  with  rolling 
stones.  It  turns  with  every  ten  paces,  in  order  to 
conquer  the  steepness  of  the  slopes.  You  reach 
at  last  a  naked  ridge,  where  you  dismount  from 
your  horse ;  here  begins  the  top  of  the  mountain. 
You  walk  for  ten  minutes  over  a  carpet  of  serried 
heather,  and  you  are  upon  the  highest  summit. 

What  a  view  !  Everything  human  disappears  ; 
villages,  enclosures,  cultivations,  all  seem  like  the 
work  of  ants.  I  have  two  valleys  under  my  eyes, 
which  seem  two  little  bands  of  earth  lost  in  a  blue 
funnel.  Nothing  exists  here  but  the  mountains. 
Our  roads  and  our  works  have  scratched  upon 
them  an  imperceptible  point ;  we  are  mites,  who 
lodge,  between  two  awakings,  under  one  of  the 
hairs  of  an  elephant.  Our  civilization  is  a  pretty, 
miniature  toy,  with  which  nature  amuses  herself  for 
a  moment,  and  which  presently  she  will  break. 
You  see  nothing  but  a  throng  of  mountains  seated 
under  the  burning  dome  of  heaven.  They  are 
ranged  in  an  amphitheatre,  like  a  council  of  im- 
movable and  eternal  beings.  All  considerations 
are  overpowered  by  the  sensation  of  immensity  : 
monstrous  ridges  which  stretch  themselves  out,  gi- 
gantic,   bony   spines,    ploughed   flanks    that   drop 


232 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  VII.       BERGONZ.—PIC  D U  MIDL 


235 


down  precipitously  into  indistinguishable  depths. 
It  is  as  though  you  were  in  a  bark  in  the  middle  of 
the  sea.  The  mountain  chains  clash  like  billows. 
The  tops  are  sharp  and  jagged  like  the  crests  of 
uplifted  waves  ;  they  come  from  all  sides,  athwart 
each  other,  piled  one  above  another,  bristling,  in- 
numerable, and  the  flood  of  granite  mounts  high 
into  the  sky  at  the  four  corners  of  the  horizon. 
On  the  north,  the  valleys  of  Luz  and  Argeles 
open  up  in  the  plain  by  a  bluish  vista,  shining  with 
a  dead  splendor  resembling  two  ewers  of  bur- 
nished pewter.  On  the  west  the  chain  of  Bareges 
stretches  like  a  saw  as  far  as  the  Pic  du  Midi,  a 
huge,  ragged-edged  axe,  marked  with  patches  of 
snow  ;  on  the  east,  lines  of  leaning  fir-trees  mount 
to  the  assault  of  the  summits.  In  the  south  an 
army  of  embattled  peaks,  of  ridges  cut  to  the 
quick,  squared  towers,  spires,  perpendicular  escarp- 
ments, lifts  itself  beneath  a  mantle  of  snow  the 
glaciers  glitter  between  the  dark  rocks ;  the  black 
ledges  stand  out  with  an  extraordinary  relief 
against  the  deep  blue.  These  rude  forms  pain  the 
eye  ;  you  are  oppressively  alive  to  the  rigidness  of 
the  masses  of  granite  which  have  burst  through  the 
crust  of  our  planet,  and  the  invincible  ruggedness 
of  the  rock  that  is  lifted  above  the  clouds.  This 
chaos  of  violently  broken  lines  tells  of  the  effort  of 
forces   of   which    we   have   no   longer   any   idea. 


% 


\( 


\ 


Since  then  nature  has  grown  mild  ;  she  rounds 
and  softens  the  forms  she  moulds ;  she  embroiders 
in  the  valleys  her  leafy  robe,  and,  as  an  industrious 
artist,  she  shapes  the  delicate  foliage  of  her  plants. 
Here,  in  her  primitive  barbarism,  she  only  knew 
how  to  cleave  the  blocks  and  heap  up  the  rough 
masses  of  her  Cyclopean  constructions.  But  her 
monument  is  sublime,  worthy  of  the  heaven  it  has 
for  a  vault  and  the  sun  which  is  its  torch. 


II. 

Geology  is  a  noble  science.  Upon  this  summit 
theories  grow  lively;  the  arguments  of  the  books 
breathe  new  life  into  the  story  of  the  mountains,  and 
the  past  appears  grander  than  the  present.  This 
country  was  in  the  beginning  a  solitary  and  boiling 
sea,  then  slowly  cooled,  finally  peopled  by  living 
creatures  and  built  up  by  their  debris.  Thus  were 
formed  the  ancient  limestones,  the  slates  of  transition 
and  several  of  the  secondary  rocks.  What  myriads 
of  ages  are  accumulated  in  a  single  phrase  !  Time 
is  a  solitude  in  which  we  set  up  here  and  there  our 
boundaries ;  they  reveal  its  immensity,  but  do  not 
measure  it. 

This  crust  cleaves,  and  a  long  wave  of  molten 
granite  heaves  itself  up,  forming  the  lofty  chain  of 
the   Gave,  of  the  Nestes,  the  Garonne,  the  Mala- 


234 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


J^OOK   III. 


Chap.  VII.       BERGONZ.—PIC  DU  MIDL 


^35 


detta,  Neouvielle.  From  here  you  see  Neouvielle 
in  the  north-east.  How  this  wall  of  fire  worked  in 
lifting  itself  amidst  this  upturned  sea,  the  imagina- 
tion of  man  will  never  conceive.  The  liquid  mass 
of  granite  formed  a  paste  among  the  rocks  ;  the 
lower  layers  were  changed  into  slate  beneath  the 
fiery  blast;  the  level  grounds  rose  up,  and  were 
overturned.  The  subterranean  stream  rose  with 
an  effort  so  abrupt,  that  they  were  stuck  to  its 
flanks  in  layers  almost  perpendicular.  **It  was 
congealed  in  torment,  and  its  agitation  is  still 
painted  in  its  petrified  waves." 

How  much  time  rolled  away  between  this  revo- 
lution and  the  next?  Monuments  are  wanting; 
the  centuries  have  left  no  traces.  There  is  a  page 
torn  out  in  the  history  of  the  earth.  Our  igno- 
rance like  our  knowledge  overwhelms  us.  We  see 
one  infinity,  and  from  it  we  divine  another  which 
we  do  not  see. 

At  last  the  ocean  changed  its  bed,  perhaps  from 
the  uplifting  of  America ;  from  the  south-west  came 
a  sea  to  burst  upon  the  chain.  The  shock  fell 
upon  the  dark  embatded  barrier  that  you  see 
towards  Gavarnie.  There  was  a  frightful  de- 
struction of  marine  animals.  Their  corpses  have 
formed  the  shelly  banks  that  you  cross  in  mounting 
to  la  Breche ;  several  layers  of  la  Breche,  of  the 
Taillon   and   of  Mont    Perdu,  are   fields  still  fetid 


( 


with  death.  The  rolling  sea,  tearing  up  its  bed, 
driued  it  against  the  wall  of  rocks,  piled  it  against 
the  sides,  heaped  it  upon  the  summits,  set  mountain 
upon  mountain,  covered  the  immense  rock,  and 
oscillated  in  furious  currents  in  its  ravaged  basin. 
I  seemed  to  see  on  the  horizon  the  oozy  surface 
coming  higher  than  the  summits,  lifting  its  waves 
against  the  sky,  eddying  in  the  valleys,  and  howling 
above  the  drowned  mountains  like  a  tempest. 

That  sea  was  bringing  half  of  the  Pyrenees  ;  its 
raging  waters  overlaid  the  primitive  declivity  with 
calcareous  strata,  tilted  and  torn  ;  upon  these  the 
quieted  waters  deposited  the  high  horizontal  layers. 
Yonder,  in  the  south-west,  the  Vignemale  is 
covered  with  them.  In  order  to  raise  up  the 
summits,  generations  of  marine  creatures  were 
born  and  died  silent  and  inert  populations  which 
swarmed  in  the  warm  ooze,  and  watched  throuo-h 
their  green  waves  the  rays  of  the  blue-tinged  sun. 
They  have  perished  along  with  their  sepulchre  ;  the 
storms  have  torn  open  the  banks  where  they  had 
buried  themselves,  and  these  shreds  of  their  wreck 
scarce  tell  how  many  myriads  of  centuries  this 
shrouded  world  has  seen  pass  away. 

One  day  at  last,  the  great  mountains  which  form 
the  horizon  on  the  south  were  seen  to  grow,  Trou- 
mousse,  the  Vignemale,  Mont  Perdu,  and  all  the 
summits    that    surround  Gedres.      The   soil   had 


236 


THE   VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  TIL 


Chap.  VII.       BERGONZ.—PIC  DU  MIDI. 


237 


burst  open  a  second  time.     A  wave  of  new  granite 

arose,  laden  with  the  ancient  granite,  and  with  the 
prodigious  mass  of  the  limestones  ;  the  alluvia  rose 
to  more  than  ten  thousand  feet ;  the  ancient  sum- 
mits of  pure  granite  were  surpassed  ;  the  beds  of 
shells  were  lifted  into  the  clouds,  and  the  upheaved 
tops  found  themselves  forever  above  the  seas. 

Two  seas  have  dwelt  upon  these  summits  ;  two 
streams  of  burning  rock  have  erected  these  chains. 
What  will  be  the  next  revolution  ?  How  long  time 
will  man  yet  last  ?  A  contraction  of  the  crust  which 
bears  him  will  cause  a  wave  of  lava  to  gush  forth 
or  will  displace  the  level  of  the  seas.  We  live  be- 
tween two  accidents  of  the  soil ;  our  history  occu- 
pies, with  room  to  spare,  a  line  in  the  history  of  the 
earth ;  our  life  depends  upon  a  variation  in  the 
heat ;  our  duration  is  for  a  moment,  and  our  force  a 
nothing.  We  resemble  the  little  blue  forget-me-nots 
which  you  pluck  as  you  go  down  the  slope ;  their 
form  is  delicate,  their  structure  admirable ;  nature 
lavishes  them  and  crushes  them ;  she  uses  all  her 
industry  in  shaping  them,  and  all  her  carelessness 
in  destroying  them.  There  is  more  art  in  them 
than  in  the  whole  mountain.  Have  they  any 
ground  for  pretending  that  the  mountain  was  made 
for  them  ? 


I 


\ 


III. 

Paul  has  climbed  the  Pic  du  Midi  of  Bigorre : 
here  is  his  journal  of  the  trip  : — 

**  Set  out  in  the  mist  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  pastures  of  Tau  through  the  mist ;  one 
sees  the  mist.  The  lake  of  Oncet  through  the 
mist ;  same  view. 

**  Howker  of  the  Five  Bears.  Several  whitish  or 
grayish  spots  on  a  whitish  or  grayish  ground.  To 
form  an  idea  of  it,  look  at  five  or  six  wafers,  of  a 
dirty  white,  stuck  behind  a  leaf  of  blotting-paper. 

'*  Beginning  of  the  steep  rise  ;  ascent  at  a  foot- 
pace, head  to  tail  of  one  another  ;  this  recalls  to  me 
Leblanc's  riding-school,  and  the  fifty  horses  advan- 
cing gracefully  in  the  saw-dust,  each  one  with  his 
nose  against  the  tail  of  the  one  before  him,  and  his 
tail  against  the  nose  of  his  follower,  as  it  used  to  be 
on  Thursdays,  the  school-day  for  going  out  and  for 
the  riding  lesson.  I  cradle  myself  voluptuously  in 
the  poetical  remembrance. 

**  First  hour  :  view  of  the  back  of  my  guide  and  the 
hind-quarters  of  his  horse.  The  guide  has  a  vest  of 
bottle-green  velvet,  darned  in  two  places,  on  the 
right  and  on  the  left ;  the  horse  is  a  dirty  brown  and 
bears  the  marks  of  the  whip.  Several  big  pebbles 
in  the  pathway.  Fog.  I  meditate  on  German 
philosophy. 


238 


THE   VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


'*  Second  hour:  the  view  enlarges;  I  perceive 
the  left  eye  of  the  guide*s  horse.  That  eye  is 
blind  ;  it  loses  nothing. 

**  Third  hour  :  the  view  broadens  more.  View  of 
the  hind-quarters  of  two  horses  and  two  tourists' 
vests  fifteen  feet  above  us.  Gray  vests,  red  girdles, 
berets.  They  swear  and  I  swear ;  that  consoles  us 
a  little. 

"Fourth  hour :  joy  and  transports;  the  guide 
promises  me  for  the  summit  the  view  of  a  sea  of 
clouds. 

"  Arrival :  view  of  the  sea  of  clouds.  Unhap- 
pily we  are  in  one  of  the  clouds.  Appearance  that 
of  a  vapor  bath  when  one  is  in  the  bath. 

•'Benefits:  cold  in  the  head,  rheumatism  in  the 
feet,  lumbago,  freezing,  such  happiness  as  a  man 
might  feel  who  had  danced  attendance  for  eight 
hours  in  an  ante-chamber  without  fire. 

*'  And  this  happens  often ! 

"  Twice  out  of  three  times.  The  guides  swear 
it  does  not." 


/ 


(7 


/ 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS, 
I. 

The  beeches  push  high  upon  the  declivities,  even 
beyond  three  thousand  feet.  Their  huge  pillars 
strike  down  into  the  hollows  where  earth  is 
gathered.  Their  roots  enter  into  the  clefts  of  the 
rock,  lift  it,  and  come  creeping  to  the  surface  like  a 
family  of  snakes.  Their  skin,  white  and  tender  in 
the  plains,  is  changed  into  a  grayish  and  solid  bark ; 
their  tenacious  leaves  shine  with  a  vigorous  green, 
beneath  the  sun  which  cannot  penetrate  them. 
They  live  isolated,  because  they  need  space,  and 
range  themselves  at  intervals  one  above  another 
like  lines  of  towers.  From  afar,  between  the  dull 
heather,  their  mound  rises  splendid  with  light,  and 
sounds  with  its  hundred  thousand  leaves  as  with  so 
many  little  bells  of  horn. 


11. 

But  the  real  inhabitants  of  the  mountains  are  the 
pines,  geometrical   trees,  akin   to   the  ferruginous 


240 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  VIII.       PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS. 


241 


blocks  hewn  by  the  primitive  eruptions.  The 
vegetation  of  the  plains  unfolds  itself  in  undulating 
forms  with  all  the  graceful  caprices  of  liberty  and 
wealth.  The  pines,  on  the  other  hand,  seem  scarce- 
ly alive  ;  their  shaft  rises  in  a  perpendicular  line 
along  the  rocks ;  their  horizontal  branches  part 
from  the  trunk  at  right  angles,  equal  as  the  radii  of 
a  circle,  and  the  entire  tree  is  a  cone  terminated  by 
a  naked  spike.  The  dull  little  blades  that  answer 
for  leaves  have  a  melancholy  hue,  without  trans- 
parency or  lustre  ;  they  seem  hostile  to  the  light ; 
they  neither  reflect  it,  nor  allow  it  to  pass,  they  ex- 
tinguish it ;  hardly  does  the  noonday  sun  fringe 
them  with  a  bluish  reflection.  Ten  paces  away, 
beneath  such  an  aureole,  the  black  pyramid  cuts 
the  horizon  like  an  opaque  mass.  They  crowd  to- 
gether in  files  under  their  funereal  mantles.  Their 
forests  are  silent  as  solitudes  ;  the  whistle  of  the 
wind  makes  there  no  noise  ;  it  glides  over  the  stiff 
beard  of  the  -leaves  without  stirring  or  rubbing 
them  together.  One  hears  no  sound  save  the 
whispering  of  the  tops  and  the  shrivelling  of  the 
little  yellowish  lamels  which  fall  in  showers  as  soon 
as  you  touch  a  branch.  The  turf  is  dead,  the  soil 
naked  ;  you  walk  in  the  shade  beneath  an  inanimate 
verdure,  among  pale  shafts  which  rise  like  tapers. 
A  strong  odor  fills  the  air,  resembling  the  perfume 
of  aromatics.     The  impression  is  that  made  by  a 


deserted  cathedral,  while,  after  a  ceremony,  the 
smell  of  incense  still  floats  under  the  arches,  and 
the  declining  day  outlines  far  away  in  the  obscurity 
the  forest  of  pillars. 

They  live  in  families  and  expel  the  other  trees 
from  their  domain.  Often,  in  a  wasted  gorge,  they 
may  be  seen  like  a  mourning  drapery  descending 
among  the  white  glaciers.  They  love  the  cold, 
and  in  winter  remain  clothed  in  snow.  Spring 
does  not  renew  them ;  you  see  only  a  few  green 
lines  run  through  the  foliage  ;  they  soon  grow  dark 
like  the  rest.  But  when  the  tree  springs  ^ from  a 
spot  of  deep  earth,  and  rises  to  a  height  of  a 
hundred  feet,  smooth  and  straight  as  the  mast  of  a 
ship,  the  mind  with  buoyancy  follows  to  the  very 
summit  the  flight  of  its  inflexible  form,  and  the 
vegetable  column  seems  as  grand  as  the  mountain 
which  nurtures  it. 

III. 

Higher  up,  on  the  barren  steeps,  the  yellowish 
box  twists  its  knotty  feet  beneath  the  stones.  It  is 
a  melancholy  and  tenacious  creature,  stunted  and 
thrust  back  upon  itself;  overborne  amidst  the 
rocks,  it  dares  not  shoot  upward  nor  spread.  Its  small 
thick  leaves  follow  each  other  in  monotonous  rows, 
clumsily  oval  and  of  a  formal  regularity.     Its  stem. 


(i 


242 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ.  Book  III. 


Chap.  VIII.      PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS, 


«43 


short  and  grayish,  is  rough  to  the  touch ;  the  round 
fruit  encloses  black  capsules,  hard  as  ebony,  that 
must  be  broken  open  for  the  seed.  Everything  in 
the  plant  is  calculated  with  a  view  to  utility:  it 
thinks  only  of  lasting  and  resisting ;  it  has  neither 
ornaments,  elegance,  nor  richness ;  it  expends  its 
sap  only  in  solid  tissues,  in  dull  colors,  in  durable 
fibres.  It  is  an  economical  and  active  housewife, 
the  only  thing  capable  of  vegetating  in  the  quag- 

mires  that  it  fills. 

If  you  continue  to  ascend,  the  trees  begin  to  fail. 
The  brush-fir  creeps  in   a  carpet   of  turf.     The 
rhododendrons  grow  in  tufts  and  crown  the  moun- 
tain with  rosy  clusters.      The  heather  crowds  its 
white  bunches,  small,  open,   vase-shaped  flowers, 
from  which  springs  a  crown  of  garnet  stamens.     In 
the  sheltered  hollows,  the  blue  campanulas  swing 
their  pretty  bells ;  the  least  wind  lays  them  low ;  they 
live  for  all  that  and  smile,  trembling  and  graceful. 
But,  among  all  these  flowers  nourished  with  light 
and   pure  air,  the  most  precious  is  the  thornless 
rose.     Never  did  petals  form  a  frailer  and  lovelier 
corolla ;  never  did  a  vermilion  so  vivid  color  a  more 
delicate  tissue. 

IV. 

At  the  summit  grow  the  mosses.     Battered  by 
the  wind,  dried   by  the  sun,  they  lose   the   fresh 


i 


green  tint  they  wear  in  the  valleys,  and  on  the  brink 
of  the  springs.  They  are  reddened  with  tawny  hues, 
and  their  smooth  filaments  have  the  reflexes  of  a 
wolf's  fur.  Others,  yellowed  and  pale,  cover  with 
their  sickly  colors  the  bleeding  crevices.  Then 
there  are  gray  ones,  almost  white,  which  grow  like 
remnants  of  hair  upon  the  bald  rocks.  Far  away, 
upon  the  back  of  the  mountain,  all  these  tints  are 
mingled,  and  the  shaded  fur  emits  a  wild  gleam. 
The  last  growths  are  reddish  crusts,  stuck  to  the 
walls  of  rock,  seeming  to  form  part  of  the  stone,  and 
which  you  might  take,  not  for  a  plant,  but  for  a 
scurf.  Cold,  dryness  and  the  height  have  by  de- 
grees transformed  or  killed  vegetation. 

V. 

The  climate  shapes  and  produces  animals  as  well 

as  plants. 

The  bear  is  a  serious  beast,  a  thorough  moun- 
taineer, curious  to  behold  in  his  great-coat  of  felted 
hair,  yellowish  or  grayish  in  color.  It  seems  formed 
for  its  domicile  and  its  domicile  for  it.  Its  heavy 
fur  is  an  excellent  mantle  against  the  snow.  The 
mountaineers  think  it  so  good,  that  they  borrow 
it  from  him  as  often  as  they  can,  and  he  thinks  it 
so  good  that  he  defends  it  against  them  to  the  best 
of  his  ability.     He  likes  to  live  alone,  and  the  gorges 


244 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  IIL 


of  the  heights  are  as  solitary  as  he  wishes.  The 
hollow  trees  afford  him  a  ready-made  house ;  as 
these  are  for  the  most  part  beeches  and  oaks,  he 
finds  in  them  at  once  food  and  shelter.  For  the 
rest,  brave,  prudent,  and  robust,  he  is  an  estimable 
animal ;  his  only  faults  are  that  he  eats  his  little 
ones,  when  he  runs  across  them,  and  that  he  is  a 
poor  dancer. 

In  hunting  him,  they  go  into  ambush  and  fire  on 
him  as  he  passes.  Lately,  in  a  battue,  a  superb 
female  was  tracked.  When  the  foremost  hunters, 
who  were  novices,  saw  the  glitter  of  the  little  fierce 
eyes,  and  perceived  the  black  mass  descending  with 
great  strides,  beating  the  underbrush,  they  forgot  all 
of  a  sudden  that  they  had  guns,  and  kept  whist  be- 
hind their  oak.  A  hundred  paces  further  on,  a 
brave  fellow  fired.  The  bear,  which  was  not  hit, 
came  up  on  a  gallop.  The  man,  dropping  his  gun, 
slipped  into  a  pit.  Reaching  the  bottom,  he  felt  of 
his  limbs  and  by  some  miracle  found  himself 
whole,  when  he  saw  the  animal  hesitating  above 
his  head,  busy  in  examining  the  slope,  and  pressing 
her  foot  upon  the  stones  to  see  if  they  were  firm. 
She  sniffed  here  and  there,  and  looked  at  the  man 
with  the  evident  intention  of  paying  him  a  visit. 
The  pit  was  a  v/ell ;  if  she  reached  the  bottom,  he 
must  resign  himself  to  a  tete-a-tete.  While  the 
man  reflected  on  this,  and  thought  of  the  animal's 


Chap.  VIII.       PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS. 


245 


teeth,  the  bear  began  to  descend  with  infinite  pre- 
caution and  address,  managing  her  precious  person 
with  great  care,  hanging  on  to  the  roots,  slowly,  but 
without  ever  stumbling.  She  was  drawing  near, 
when  the  hunters  came  up  and  shot  her  dead. 

The  isard  dwells  above  the  bear,  upon  the  naked 
tops,  in  the  region  of  the  glaciers.  He  needs  space 
for  his  leaps  and  gambols.  He  is  too  lively  and  gay 
to  shut  himself,  like  the  heavy  misanthrope,  in  the 
gorges  and  forests.  No  animal  is  more  agile ;  he 
leaps  from  rock  to  rock,  clears  precipices,  and  keeps 
his  place  upon  points  where  there  is  just  room  for 
his  four  feet.  You  sometimes  hear  a  hollow  bleat- 
ing on  the  heights :  it  is  a  band  of  isards  crop- 
ping the  herbage  amidst  the  snow  ;  their  tawny 
dress  and  their  little  horns  stand  out  in  the  blue  of 
the  heavens ;  one  of  them  gives  the  alarm  and  all 
disappear  in  a  moment. 


VI. 

You  often  hear  for  a  half-hour  a  tinkling  of 
bells  behind  the  mountain  ;  these  are  the  herds  of 
goats  changing  their  pasture.  Sometimes  there 
are  more  than  a  thousand  of  them.  You  find  your- 
self stopped  in  crossing  the  bridges  until  the  whole 
caravan  has  filed  over.  They  have  long  hanging 
hairs  which  form  their  coat ;  with  their  black  mantle 


246 


THE  VALLEY  OF  LUZ. 


Book  III. 


Chap.  VIII.      PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS, 


247 


and  great  beard,  you  would  say  that  they  were 
dressed  for  a  masquerade.  Their  yellow  eyes  stare 
vaguely,  with  an  expression  of  curiosity  and  gentle- 
ness. They  seem  to  wonder  at  their  walking  in 
such  orderly  fashion  on  level  ground.  Only  to  look 
at  that  dry  leg  and  horny  foot,  you  feel  that  they  are 
framed  to  wander  at  random  and  leap  about  on  the 
rocks.  From  time  to  time  the  less  disciplined  ones 
stop,  set  their  fore  feet  against  the  mountain,  and 
crop  a  bramble  or  a  blossom  of  lavender.  The 
others  come  and  push  them  on;  they  start  off  again 
with  a  mouthful  of  herbage,  and  eat  as  they  walk. 
All  their  physiognomies  are  intelligent,  resigned 
and  melancholy,  with  flashes  of  caprice  and 
originality.  You  see  the  forest  of  horns  waving 
above  the  black  mass,  and  their  smooth  hair  shining 
in  the  sun.  Enormous  dogs,  with  woolly  coat, 
spotted  with  white,  walk  gravely  along  the  sides, 
growling  when  you  draw  near.  The  herdsman 
comes  behind  in  his  brown  cloak,  with  an  eye  fixed, 
glittering,  void  of  thought,  like  that  of  the  animals  ; 
and  the  whole  band  disappears  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
out  of  v/hich  comes  a  sound  of  shrill  bleating. 

VII. 

Why  should  not  I  speak  of  the  happiest  animal 
In    creation?    A  great  painter,    Karel  du   Jardin, 


'  ii 


has  taken  a  liking  for  it;  he  has  drawn  it  in  all 
its  attitudes,  and  has  shown  all  its  pleasures  and 
all  its  tastes.  The  rights  of  prose  are  indeed 
equal  to  those  of  painting,  and  I  promise  that 
travellers  will  take  pleasure  in  considering  the 
hogs.  There,  the  word  is  out.  Now  mind  that 
in  the  Pyrenees  they  are  not  covered  with  tainting 
filth,  as  on  our  farms ;  they  are  rosy  or  black,  well 
washed,  and  live  upon  the  dry  gravel,  alongside 
the  running  waters.  They  make  holes  in  the  heated 
sand,  and  sleep  there  in  groups  of  five  or  six,  close 
set  in  lines,  in  admirable  order.  When  any  one 
draws  near,  the  whole  mass  moves ;  the  corkscrew 
tails  frisk  fantastically  ;  two  crafty,  philosophic  eyes 
open  beneath  the  pendent  ears ;  the  mocking  noses 
stretch  forth  and  snuff;  they  all  grunt  in  concert ; 
after  which,  becoming  accustomed  to  the  intrusion, 
they  are  quieted,  they  lie  down  again,  the  eyes  close 
in  sanctimonious  fashion,  the  tails  retire  into  place, 
and  the  blessed  rogues  return  to  their  digestion  and 
enjoyment  of  the  sun.  All  these  expressive  snouts 
seem  to  cry  shame  upon  prejudices,  and  invoke  en- 
joyment ;  there  is  something  reckless  and  derisive 
about  them  ;  the  whole  countenance  is  directed  to- 
wards the  snout,  and  the  end  of  the  entire  head  is 
in  the  mouth.  Their  lengthened  nose  seems  to 
sniff  and  take  in  from  the  air  all  agreeable  sensa- 
tions.  They  spread  themselves  so  complacently  on 


248 


THE  VALLE  Y  OF  L  UZ. 


Book  III. 


the  ground,  they  wag  their  ears  with  such  voluptu- 
ous Httle  movements,  they  utter  such  penetrating 
ejaculations  of  pleasure,  that  you  get  out  of  patience 
with  them.  Oh  genuine  epicureans,  if  sometimes  in 
your  sleep  you  deign  to  reflect,  you  ought  to  think, 
like  the  goose  of  Montaigne,  that  the  world  was 
made  for  you,  that  man  is  your  servant,  and  that 
you  are  the  privileged  creatures  of  nature.  There 
is  but  one  moment  of  trouble  in  their  whole  life, 
that  is  when  they  are  killed.  Still  they  pass  quickly 
away  and  do  not  foresee  this  moment. 

VIII. 

Myriads  of  lizards  nestle  in  the  chinks  of  slate 
and  in  the  walls  of  rounded  pebbles.  On  the  ap- 
proach of  a  passer-by,  they  run  like  a  streak  across 
the  road.  If  you  stand  quiet  for  a  moment,  you  see 
their  little  restless,  sly  heads  peep  out  between  two 
stones  ;  the  rest  of  the  body  shows  itself,  the  tail 
wriggles,  and,  with  an  abrupt  movement,  they 
climb  zigzag  upon  the  gravelly  ledges.  There  they 
have  as  much  sun  as  they  please,  sun  to  roast  alive 
in  ;  at  noon,  the  rock  burns  the  hand.  This  power- 
ful sun  heats  their  cold  blood,  and  gives  spring  and 
action  to  their  limbs.  They  are  capricious,  passion- 
ate, violent,  and  fight  like  men.  Sometimes  you 
may  see  two  of  them  rolling  the  whole  length  of  a 


Chap.  VIIL      PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS. 


249 


It 


rock,  one  over  the  other,  in  the  dust,  get  up  again 
dimmed  and  dirty,  and  run  briskly  away,  like  cow- 
ardly and    insubordinate  schoolboys    taken   in   a 
misdeed.    Some  of  them  lose  their  tails  in  these  ad- 
ventures, so  that  they  look  as  if  they  wore  a  coat 
that  is  too  short  for  them ;  they  hide,  ashamed  of 
being  so  ill  dressed.     Others    in  their  gray  justi- 
coats  have  slight,  graceful  motions,  an  air  at  once  so 
coquettish  and  timid  that  it  takes  away  all  desire  to 
harm  them.     When   they  are  asleep  on  a  slab  of 
stone,  you  can  see  their  whitish  throat  and  their 
small,  intelligent  mouth ;  but  they  scarcely  ever  sleep, 
they  are  always  on  the  lookout ;  they  scamper  off 
at    the    least  sound,   and,  when   nothing  troubles 
them,  they  trot,  frolic,  climb  up  and  down,  make  a 
hundred  turns  for  pleasure.     They  love  company, 
and  live  near  or  with  one  another.     No  animal  is 
prettier  or  has  more  innocent  ways ;  with  the  charm- 
ing white  and  yellow  sedum,  it  enlivens  the  long 
walls  of  stone,  and  both  live  on  dryness,  as  other 
things  on  moisture. 

The  sun,  the  light,  the.  vegetation,  animals,  man 
are  so  many  books  wherein  nature  has,  in  different 
characters,  written  the  same  thought.  If  the  hogs 
have  a  clean  and  rosy  skin,  it  is  because  the  boiling 
granite  and  the  sea  swarming  with  fish  have  during 
millions   of    years   accumulated   and   uplifted   ten 

thousand  feet  of  rock. 
II* 


I 


♦ 


BOOK    IV. 

BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON. 


?.'f 


't'-v 


\ 


m 


CHAPTER  I. 


FJ^O^f  LUZ  TO  BAGNArES'DE-BIGOERE. 


I. 


One  must  submit  here  to  long,  stifling  ascents  ; 
the  horses  trudge  on  at  a  foot-pace  or  pant ;  the 
travellers  sleep  or  sweat ;  the  conductor  grumbles 
or  drinks  ;  the  dust  whirls,  and,  if  you  go  out, 
your  throat  is  parched  or  your  eyes  smart.  There 
is  only  one  way  of  passing  the  evil  hour:  it  is  to 
tell  over  some  old  story  of  the  country,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, the  following : — 

Bos  de  Benac  was  a  good  knight,  a  great  friend 
of  the  king  Saint  Louis ;  he  went  on  a  crusade  into 
the  land  of  Egypt,  and  killed  many  Saracens  for 
the  salvation  of  his  soul.  But  finally  the  French 
were  beaten  in  a  great  battle,  and  Bos  de  Benac 
left  for  dead.  He  was  taken  away  prisoner  along 
the  river,  towards  the  south,  into  a  country  where 
the  skin  of  the  men  was  quite  burned  by  the  heat, 
and  there  he  remained  ten  years.  They  made  him 
herdsman  of  their  flocks,  and  often  beat  him  be- 
cause he  was  a  Frank  and  a  Christian. 


254 


BA  GNMES  and  L  UCHON,         Book  IV. 


One  day  when  he  was  afflicted  and  lamenting 
his  lot  in  a  solitary  place,  he  saw  appear  before 
him  a  little  black  man,  who  had  two  horns  to  his 
forehead,  a  goafs  foot,  and  a  more  wicked  air  than 
the  most  wicked  of  Saracens.     Bos  was  so  used  to 
seeing  black  men,  that  he  did  not  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross.     It  was  the  devil,  who  said,  sneering,  to 
him:    ''Bos,  what  good  has  it  done  thee  to  fight 
for  thy  God  ?     He  leaves  thee  the  servant  of  my 
servants  of  Nubia ;  the  dogs  of  thy  castie  are  better 
treated  than  thou.     Thou  art  thought  dead  and  to- 
morrow thy  wife  will  be  married.     Go  then  to  milk 
thy  flock,  thou  good  knight." 

Bos  uttered  a  loud  cry  and  wept,  for  he  loved  his 
wife ;  the  devil  pretended  to  have  pity  on  him,  and 
said  to  him:  *'  I  am  not  so  bad  as  thy  priests  tell. 
Thou  hast  fought  well ;  I  like  brave  men ;  I  will  do 
for  thee  more  than  thy  friend,  the  crucified  one. 
This  night  shalt  thou  be  in  thy  beautiful  land  of 
Bigorre.  Give  me  in  exchange  a  plate  of  nuts 
from  thy  table :  what,  there  thou  art  embarrassed 
as  a  theologian !  Dost  thou  think  that  nuts  have 
souls?     Come,  decide." 

Bos  forgot  that  it  is  a  mortal  sin  to  give  any- 
thing to  the  devil,  and  stretched  out  to  him  his 
hand.  Immediately  he  was  borne  away  as  in  a 
whirlwind;  he  saw  beneath  him  a  great  yellow 
river,  the  Nile,  which  stretched  out,  like  a  snake,  be- 


Chap.  I.     LUZ  TO  BAGNERES-DE-BIGORRE, 


255 


tween  two  bands  of  sand  ;  a  moment  afterward, 
a  city  spread  on  the  strand  like  a  cuirass ;  then 
innumerable  waves  ranged  from  one  end  of  the 
horizon  to  the  other,  and  on  them  black  vessels 
like  unto  swallows ;  further  on,  a  triple-coasted 
island,  with  a  hollow  mountain  full  of  fire  and  a 
plume  of  tawny  smoke ;  then  again  the  sea.  Night 
fell,  when  a  range  of  mountains  lifted  itself  into  the 
red  bands  of  the  sunset.  Bos  recognized  the  ser- 
rate tops  of  the  Pyrenees  and  was  filled  with  joy. 

The  devil  said  to  him :  '*  Bos,  come  first  to  my 
servants  of  the  mountain.  In  all  conscience,  since 
you  return  to  the  country,  you  owe  them  a  visit 
They  are  more  beautiful  than  thy  angels,  and  will 
love  thee,  since  thou  art  my  friend." 

The  good  knight  was  horrified  to  think  that  he 
was  the  friend  of  the  devil,  and  followed  him  re- 
luctantly. The  hand  of  the  devil  was  as  a  vice  ;  he 
went  swifter  than  the  wind.  Bos  traversed  at  a 
bound  the  valley  of  Pierrefitte  and  found  himself 
at  the  foot  of  the  Bergonz,  before  a  door  of  stone 
which  he  had  never  seen.  The  door  opened  of 
itself  with  a  sound  softer  than  a  bird's  song,  and 
they  entered  a  hall  a  thousand  feet  high,  all  of 
crystal,  flaming  as  if  the  sun  were  inside  it.  Bos 
saw  three  little  women  as  large  as  one's  hand,  on 
seats  of  agate ;  they  had  eyes  clear  as  the  green 
waters  of  the  Gave ;  their  cheeks  had  the  vermil- 


256 


BAGN^RES  AND  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


ion  of  the  thornless  rose ;  their  snowy  robe  was  as 
light  as  the  airy  mist  of  the  cascades ;  their  scarf 
was  of  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  Bos  beUeved  he 
had  seen  it  formerly  floating  on  the  brink  of  the 
precipices,  when  the  morning  fog  evaporated  with 
the  sun's  first  rays.  They  were  spinning,  and 
their  wheels  turned  so  fast  that  they  were  invisible. 
They  rose  all  together,  and  sang  with  their  little 
silvery  voices :  "  Bos  is  returned ;  Bos  is  the  friend 
of  our  master ;  Bos,  we  will  spin  thee  a  cloak  of 
silk  in  exchange  for  thy  crusader's  mantle.'' 

A  moment  later  he  was  before    another  moun- 
tain, which  he  recognized  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 
It  was  that  of  Campana,  which  rings  when  misfor- 
tune comes  upon  the  country.     Bos  found  himself 
inside  without  knowing  how  it  happened,  and  saw 
that  it  was  hollow  to  the  very  summit.     An  enor- 
mous bell  of  burnished  silver  descended  from  the 
uppermost  vault ;  a  troop  of  black  goats  was  at- 
tached to  the  clapper.     Bos  perceived  that  these 
goats  were  devils ;  their  short  tails  wriggled  con- 
vulsively ;  their  eyes  were  like  burning  coals  ;  their 
hair  trembled  and  shrivelled  like  green  branches  on 
live  coals ;  their  horns  were  pointed  and  crooked 
like  Syrian  swords.     When  they  saw  Bos  and  the 
demon  they  came  leaping  around  them  with  such 
abrupt  bounds  and  such  strange  eyes  that  the  good 
knight  felt  his  heart  fail  within  him.     Those  eyes 


chap.1.  luz  to  bagneres-de-bigorre. 


257 


formed  cabalistic  figures,  and  danced  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  wiU-o^the-wisp  in  the  grave-yard ;  then 
they  ranged  themselves  in  single  file  and  ran  for- 
ward ;  the  steel  clapper  flew  against  the  soundmg 
wall,  an  immense  voice  came  rolling  forth  from  the 
vibrant  silver.     Bos  seemed  to  hear  it  in  the  depths 
of   his  brain ;  the   palpitations  of  the   sound  ran 
through  his  whole  body ;  he  shuddered  with  an- 
guish  like  a  man  in  delirium,  and  distinctly  heard 
the  bell  chanting:  -Bos  has  returned;  Bos  is  the 
friend  of  our  master;  Bos,  it  is  not  the  bell  of  the 
church,  it  is  I  who  ring  thy  return." 

He  felt  himself  once  more  lifted  into  the  air ;  the 
trees  rooted  in  the  rock  bent  before  his  companion 
and  himself  as  beneath  a  storm ;  the  bears  howled 
mournfully ;    troops  of  wolves  fled  shivering  over 
the  snow.     Great  reddish  clouds  flew  across  the  sky, 
jagged  and  quivering  like  the  wings  of  bats.     The 
evil  spirits   of  the    valley    rose   up    and    eddied 
through  the  night.     The  heads  of  the  rocks  seemed 
alive ;  the  army  of  the  mountains  appeared  to  shake 
themselves  and  follow  him.     They  traversed  a  wall 
of  clouds  and  stopped  upon  the  peak  of  Anie.     At 
that  very  moment,  a  flash  cleft  the  vapory  mass. 
Bos  saw  a  phantom  tall  as  a  huge  pine,  the  face 
burning  like  a   furnace,   enveloped  in   red   clouds. 
Violet  aureoles  flamed  upon  his  head ;    the  light- 
ning  crept  at  his  feet  in  dazzling  trains ;   his  whole 


258 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 


body  shone  with  white  flashes.  The  thunder  burst 
forth,  the  neighboring  summit  fell,  the  upturned 
rocks  smoked,  and  Bos  heard  a  mighty  voice  say- 
ing: "Bos  has  returned;  Bos  is  the  friend  of  our 
master ;  Bos,  I  illumine  the  valley  for  thy  return 
better  than  the  tapers  of  thy  church." 

The  poor  Bos,  bathed  in  a  cold  sweat,  was  sud- 
denly borne  to  the  foot  of  the  chateau  of  Benac, 
and  the  devil  said  to  him :  ''  Good  knight,  go  now, 
find  again  thy  wife!"  Then  he  began  to  laugh 
with  a  noise  like  the  cracking  of  a  tree,  and  disap- 
peared, leaving  behind  a  smell  of  sulphur. 

Morning  dawned,  the  air  was  cold,  the  earth 
damp,  and  Bos  shivered  under  his  tatters,  when  he 
saw  a  superb  cavalcade  draw  near.  Ladies  in 
robes  of  brocade  seamed  with  silver  and  pearls ; 
lords  in  armor  of  polished  steel,  with  chains  of 
gold ;  noble  palfreys  beneath  scarlet  housings,  con- 
ducted by  pages  in  doublets  of  black  velvet ;  then 
an  escort  of  men-at-arms,  whose  cuirasses  glittered 
in  the  sun.  It  was  the  Sire  d' Angles  coming  to 
marry  the  lady  of  Benac.  They  filed  slowly 
along  the  ascent  and  were  buried  beneath  the  dark- 
ness of  the  porch. 

Bos  ran  to  the  gate ;  but  they  repelled  him,  say- 
ing: *'  Come  back  at  noon,  my  good  man,  thou  shalt 
have  alms  like  the  rest." 

Bos  sat  down  upon  a  rock,  tormented  with  grief 


'Chap.  I.    LUZ  TO  BAGN^RES-DE-BIGORRE. 


259 


and  rage.  Inside  the  castle  he  heard  the  flourish 
of  trumpets  and  the  sounds  of  rejoicing.  Another 
was  going  to  take  his  wife  and  his  goods ;  he 
clenched  his  fists  and  revolved  thoughts  of 
murder;  but  he  had  no  weapons;  he  determined 
to  be  patient,  as  he  had  so  often  been  among  the 
Saracens,  and  waited. 

All  the  poor  of  the  neighborhood  were  gathered 
together,  and  Bos  placed  himself  among  them. 
He  was  not  humble  as  the  good  king  Saint  Louis, 
who  washed  the  feet  of  the  beggars ;  he  was 
heartily  ashamed  of  walking  among  these  pouch- 
bearers,  these  maimed  and  halt,  with  crooked  legs 
and  bent  backs,  ill  clad  in  poor,  torn  and  patched 
cloaks,  and  in  rags  and  tatters ;  but  he  was  still 
more  ashamed  when,  in  passing  over  the  moat  filled 
with  clear  water,  he  saw  his  burnt  face,  his  locks 
bristling  like  the  hair  of  a  wild  beast,  his  haggard 
eyes,  his  whole  body  wasted  and  bruised ;  then  he 
remembered  that  his  only  garment  was  a  torn  sack 
and  the  skin  of  a  great  goat,  and  that  he  was  more 
hideous  than  the  most  hideous  beggar.  These 
cried  aloud  the  praises  of  the  wedded  ones,  while 
Bos  ground  his  teeth  with  rage. 

They  followed  the  lofty  corridor,  and  Bos  saw 
through  the  door  the  old  banqueting  hall.  His 
arms  still  hung  there  ;  he  recognized  the  antlers  of 
stags  that  he  had  shot  with  his  bow,  the  heads  of 


,6o  BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 

bears  that  he  had  slain  with  his  boar-spear.     The 
hall  was  full ;  the  joy  of  the  banquet  rose   high 
beneath  the  vault ;  the  wine  of  Languedoc  flowed 
generously  in  the  cups,  the  guests  were  dnnking 
the  health  of  the  betrothed.     The  lord  of  Angles 
was   talking  very  low  to  the  beautiful  lady,  who 
smiled  and  turned  towards  him  her  gentle  eyes. 
When  Bos  saw   those  rosy  lips  smiling  and  the 
black  eyes  beaming  beneath  the  scarlet  capulet,  he 
felt  his  heart  gnawed  with  jealousy,  bounded  mto 
the  hall  and  cried  out  with  a  terrible  voice :  "  Out  of 
this  ye  traitors !  I  am  master  here,  Bos  de  B^nac. 

'■Beggar  and  liar ! "  said  the  lord  of  Angles. 
<'We  saw  Bos  fall  dead  on  the  banks  of  the 
Egyptian  stream.  Who  art  thou,  old  leper  ?  Thy 
face  is  black  like  those  of  the  damned  Saracens. 
You  are  all  in  league  with  the  devil ;  it  is  the  evil 
spirit  who  has  led  thee  hither.  Drive  him  out,  and 
loose  the  dogs  upon  him." 

But  the   tender-hearted  lady   begged  them   to 
have  mercy  on  the  unhappy  madman.     Bos,  pricked 
by  his  conscience,  believing  that  everybody  knew 
his  sin,  fled  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  in  horror  of 
himself,  and   stayed    not  until  he  had  reached   a 
solitary  bog.     Night  came,  and  the  bell  of  Mount 
Campana  began  to  toll.     He  heard  the  wheels  of 
the  faeries  of  the  Bergonz  humming.      The  giant 
clad    in    fire    appeared    on    the    peak    of   Ame. 


\ 


Chap.  I.     LUZ  TO  BAGNMrES-DE-BIGORRE.  261 

■  . 

Strange  images,  like  the  dreams  of  a  sick  man,  rose 
in  his  brain.  The  breath  of  the  demon  was  on 
him.  A  legion  of  fantastic  visages  galloped  through 
his  head  to  the  rustle  of  infernal  wings,  and  the 
ravishing  smile  of  the  lovely  lady  pricked  him  to 
the  heart  like  the  point  of  a  poniard.  The  little 
black  man  appeared  near  him,  and  said  to  him  : 
*'  How,  Bos,  art. thou  not  invited  to  the  wedding  of 
thy  wife  ?  The  lord  of  Angles  espouses  her  at  this 
very  hour.     Friend  Bos,  he  is  not  courteous  !  *' 

"Accursed  of  God,  what  art  thou  here  to  do  ?" 

*'  Thou  art  scarcely  grateful ;  I  have  led  thee 
out  of  Egypt,  as  Moses  did  his  Israelite  loungers, 
and  I  have  transported  thee,  not  in  forty  years  but 
in  a  day,  into  the  promised  land.  Poor  fool,  whose 
amusement  is  tears  !  Dost  thou  wish  thy  wife  ? 
Give  me  thy  faith,  nothing  more.  Indeed,  thou 
art  right ;  to-morrow,  if  thou  art  not  frozen,  and  if 
thou  pleadest  humbly  with  the  lord  of  Angles,  he 
will  make  thee  keeper  of  his  kennels  ;  it  is  a  fine 
situation.  To-night,  sleep  on  the  snow,  good 
knight.  Yonder,  where  the  lights  are,  the  lord 
of  Angles  embraces  thy  wife." 

Bos  was  stifling,  and  thought  he  was  going  to 
die.  "  Oh  Lord  my  God,"  said  he,  falling  on  his 
knees,  *' deliver  me  from  the  tempter!"  And  he 
burst  into  tears. 

The  devil  fled,  driven  by  this  ardent  prayer ;  the 


262 


BA  GNERES  AND  L  UCHON.        Book  IV. 


hands  of  Bos  clasped  over  his  breast  touched  his 
marriage  ring  which  he  carried  in  his  scapulary. 
He  trembled  with  joy!  Thanks,  O  Lord,  and 
bring  me  there  in  time." 

He  ran  as  if  he  had  wings,  crossed  the  thresh- 
old at  a  bound,  and  hid  himself  behind  a  pillar 
of  the  gallery.  The  procession  advanced  with 
torches.  When  the  lady  was  near  him,  Bos  rose, 
took  her  hand  and  showed  her  the  ring.  She 
recognized  it  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms.  He 
turned  towards  those  who  were  present  and  said : 
*'  I  have  suffered  like  our  Saviour,  and  like  Him 
been  denied.  Men  of  Bigorre,  who  have  maltreated 
and  denied  me,  I  pray  that  you  will  be  my  friends 
as  of  old." 

On  the  morrow  Bos  went  to  pour  a  dish  of  nuts 
into  a  black  gulf,  where  often  was  heard  the  voice 
of  the  devil ;  after  that  he  left  to  confess  himself  to 
the  pope.  On  his  return  he  became  a  hermit  in  a 
cavern  of  the  mountain,  and  his  wife  a  nun  in  a 
convent  at  Tarbes.  Both  piously  did  penance, 
and  were  worthy  after  their  death  to  behold  God. 


II. 

A  LITTLE  beyond  Lourdes  begins  the  plain,  and 
the  sky  opens  out  over  an  immense  space :  the 
azure  dome  grows  pale  toward  the  edges,  and  its 


Chap.  I.     LUZ  TO  BAGN&RES-DE-BIGORRE.  263 

tender  blue,  graded  down  by  insensible  shades, 
loses  itself  on  the  horizon  in  an  exquisite  white- 
ness. These  colors,  so  pure,  so  rich,  so  sweetly 
blended,  are  like  a  great  concert  where  one  finds 
himself  enveloped  in  harmony;  the  light  comes 
from  all  sides ;  the  air  is  penetrated  with  it,  the 
blue  vault  sparkles  from  the  dome  to  the  very 
horizon.  Other  objects  are  forgotten;  you  are 
absorbed  in  a  single  sensation ;  you  cannot  help 
enjoying  this  unchangeable  serenity,  this  profusion 
of  brightness,  this  overflowing  of  golden,  gushing 
light  playing  in  limitless  space.  This  sky  of  the 
south  corresponds  to  but  one  state  of  the  soul,  joy ; 
it  has  but  one  thought,  one  beauty,  but  it  gives  rise 
to  the  conception  of  full  and  durable  happiness ;  it 
sets  in  the  heart  a  spring  of  gayety  ever  ready  to 
flow ;  man  in  this  country  ought  to  wear  life  lightly. 
Our  northern  skies  have  a  deeper  and  more  varied 
expression ;  the  metallic  reflections  of  their  chang- 
ing clouds  accord  with  the  troubled  souls ;  their 
broken  light  and  strange  shadings  express  the  sad 
joy  of  melancholy  passions  ;  they  touch  the  heart 
more  deeply  and  with  a  keener  stroke.  But  blue 
and  white  are  such  lovely  hues !  From  here  the 
north  seems  an  exile ;  you  would  never  have 
thought  that  two  colors  could  give  so  much 
pleasure.  They  vanish  into  each  other,  like 
pleasant  sounds  that  grow  into  harmony  and  are 


264 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


Chap.  I.     LUZ  TO  BAGNMRES-DE-BIGORRE.  265 


blended  together.  The  distant  white  softens  the 
garish  Hght  and  imprisons  it  in  a  haze  of  thickened 
air.  The  azure  of  the  dome  deadens  the  rays 
under  its  dark  tint,  reflects  them,  breaks  them, 
and  seems  strewn  with  spangles  of  gold.  This 
glitter  in  the  sky,  these  horizons  drowned  in  a 
misty  zone,  this  transparence  of  the  infinite  air, 
this  depth  of  a  heaven  without  clouds,  is  worth  as 
much  as  the  sight  of  the  mountains. 

III. 

Tarbes  is  a  good-sized  city  that  looks  like  a 
market  town,  paved  with  small  stones,  mediocre  in 
appearance.  You  alight  in  a  place  where  great  dusty 
elms  make  a  shade.  At  noon  the  streets  are  empty ; 
it  is  evident  that  you  are  near  the  sun  of  Spain. 
A  few  women  merely,  with  red  foulards  on  the 
head,  were  selling  peaches  at  the  corners.  A  little 
further  on  some  cavalry  soldiers  stretched  their  great 
awkward  legs  in  the  narrow  shadow  of  their  wall. 
You  run  across  a  square  of  four  buildings,  in  the 
midst  of  which  rises  a  bell-tower  flaring  at  the  base. 
It  is  the  church ;  it  has  but  a  single  aisle,  very 
high,  very  broad,  very  cool,  painted  in  dark  colors, 
which  contrast  with  the  stifling  heat  outside  and 
the  glare  of  the  white  walls;  above  the  altar,  six 
columns   of  mottled  marble,   surmounted  with  a 


n 


baldachin,  make  a  pretty  effect.     The  pictures  are 

like  those  everywhere  else :  A  Christ,  mingled  fresh 

butter  and  pale  rose  in  hue,  a  passion  in  colored 

engravings  at  six  sous  each.  A  few,  hung  very  high 

in   dark   corners,    seem   better    because   you   can 

make  nothing  out    of  them.     A  little  further  on 

they  have  just  built  a  court-house,  clean  and  new  as 

a  judge's  robe  ;  the  ashler  work  is  well  dressed,  and 

the  walls  perfectly  scraped.     The  front  is  adorned 

with  two   statues :    Justice,  who  looks  like  a  fool, 

and  Force,  who  looks  like  a  girl.     Force  has  on 

low  boots  and  the  skin  of  an  animal.      Instead  of 

fine  statues  we  have  ugly  riddles.      Since  they  had 

a  fancy  for  symbols,  could  they  not  have  dressed 

Force  as  a  policeman  ?     To  compensate  ourselves 

for  the  statues,  we  went  to  visit  the  horses.     In  this 

place,  the  homely  city  becomes   an   elegant  city. 

The  buildings  of  the  stud  are  simple  and  in  good 

taste.      Turf,    rosebushes,    stairways    filled    with 

flowers,  a  beautiful  meadow  of  high  grass ;  in  the 

distance  are  poplars   ranged  as  a   screen   to  the 

limpid  horizon.      The  habitation  of  the  horses  is  a 

pleasure-house.     There  are  fifty  beasts  in  a  long 

stable  that  might  serve    at   need  for  a  ball-room ; 

they  are  superb  creatures  with  shining  coats,  firm 

croup,  gentle  eye,  calm  front:  they  feed  peaceably 

in   their  stalls,  having  a  double   mat  under  their 

litter;    everything    is     brushed,     wiped,    rubbed. 
12 


266 


BA  GNMES  and  L  UCHON.        Book  IV. 


Chap.  I      LUZ  TO  BAGNERES-DE-BIGORRE,         267 


Grooms  in  red  vests  come  and  go  incessantly  to 
clean  them  and  see  that  nothing  is  wanting.  Man 
in  the  earthly  paradise  was  less  happy. 

IV. 

Poor  mankind  has  no  city  which  is  not  full  of 
lamentable  memories.  The  Protestants  took  this 
one  in  1570  and  butchered  all  the  inhabitants.  One 
of  them  had  taken  refuge  in  a  tower  whose  only 
ascent  was  by  a  narrow  staircase ;  they  sent  one  of 
his  friends,  who  called  to  him  under  pretext  of  a 
parley ;  no  sooner  had  he  put  his  head  at  the  win- 
dow than  he  was  killed  by  an  arquebusade.  The 
peasants  who  came  to  give  burial  to  the  dead  in- 
terred two  thousand  of  them  in  the  ditches.  Five 
years  after,  the  country  was  almost  a  desert. 

Patience  !  the  Catholics  were  no  gentler  than  the 
Protestants;  witness  that  siege  of  Rabastens, 
twelve  miles  distant  from  Tarbes. 

"  Suddenly,"  says  Montluc,  ''  I  saw  that  others 
besides  our  foot  soldiers  should  have  a  hand  here, 
and  said  to  the  nobility :  *  Gentlemen,  my  friends, 
follow  boldly,  and  give,  and  be  not  wonder-struck ; 
for  we  could  not  choose  a  more  honorable  death.' 
And  so  we  all  marched  with  as  good  a  will  as  ever 
I  saw  in  my  life  to  the  assault,  and  I  twice  looked 
back ;  I  saw  that  all  were  closed  up  so  as  to  touch 


one  another.     I  had  caused  three   or  four  ladders 
to  be  carried  to  the  brink  of  the  moat,  and  as  I 
turned  backward  to  order  them  to  bring  up  two 
ladders,  a  volley  was  given  me  in  the  face  from  the 
corner  of  a  barricade  which  adjoined  the  tower.     I ' 
was  suddenly  covered  with  blood,  for  I  bled  from 
the  mouth,  nose  and  eyes.     Then  almost  all  the 
soldiers,  and  nearly  all  the  nobles  too,  began  to  be 
affrio-hted  and  would  retreat.     But  I  cried  out  to 
them,  although  I  could  scarcely  speak  for  the  quan- 
tity of  blood  which  gushed  from  my  mouth  and 
nose :    '  Where  will  you  go  ?    Will  you  be  fright- 
ened on  my  account?     Do  not  stir,   and  do  not 
abandon  the  fight.'     And  said  to  the  nobles,   '  I  am 
going  to  get  my  wounds  dressed  :  let  no  one  follow 
me,  and  avenge  me  as  you  love   me.'     I   took  a 
nobleman  by  the  hand,  and  so  was  led  to  my  lodg- 
ing, where  I  found  a  surgeon  of  M.  de  Goas'  regi- 
ment, named  Maitre  Simon,  who  dressed  my  wound 
and  pulled  out  the  bones  from  both  cheeks  with  his 
two  fingers,  so  large  were  the  holes,  and  cut  off 
much  flesh  from  my  face,  which  was  covered  with 

wounds. 

''  Here  now  is  M.  de  Madaillan,  my  lieutenant, 
who  was  at  my  side  when  I  went  to  the  charge,  and 
M.  de  Goas  on  the  other,  who  was  come  to  see 
if  I  were  dead,  and  said  to  me  :  '  Rejoice,  monsieur, 
take  courage,  we  are  inside.     There  are  the  soldiers 


268  BAGNtRES  AND  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 

with  hands  that  kill  everybody ;  be  assured  then 
that  we  will  avenge  your  wound.'  Then  I  said  to 
him  •  <  I  praise  God,  because  I  see  that  victory  is 
ours  before  I  die.  At  present  I  feel  no  concern 
at  dying.  I  beg  you  will  go  back,  and  show  me  all 
the  affection  you  have  borne  me,  and  take  care  that 
no  one  escapes  unkilled, 

•'  And  immediately  he  went  away,  and  even  my 
servants  all  went ;  so  that  there  remained  along  with 
me  only  two  pages,  and  the  advocate  de  Las  and 
the  surgeon.     They  wanted  to   save  the  minister 
and  the  captain  of  the  garrison,  named  Ladous,  so 
as  to  have  them  hung  before  my  quarters.    But  the 
soldiers  had  nearly  killed  them  themselves,  and  took 
them  away  from  those  who  held  them  and  tore 
them  into  a  thousand  pieces.     The  soldiers  made 
fifty   or   sixty  who  had  withdrawn  into  the  great 
tower,  leap  from  the  top  into  the  moat,  and  these 
were  drowned.     It  turns  out  that  two  who  had  hid- 
den themselves  were  saved.     There  was  a  certain 
prisoner  who  wanted  to  give  four  thousand  crowns. 
But  never  a  man  would  hear  of  any  ransom,  and 
most  of  the  women  were  killed." 

With  such  fits  of  madness  how  has  the  human 
race  managed  to  endure  ?  "  In  vain  you  drain  it," 
says  Mephistopheles,  "  the  fresh  spring  of  living 
blood  forever  reappears." 


1 


CHAPTER  11. 

MA  GNJtRES'DE'BIGORRE 

I. 

You  set  out  for  Bagneres  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  in  the  dust  and  amidst  a  train  of  coucous 
laden  with  people.  The  road  is  blocked,  like  the 
roads  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris  on  a  Saturday  evening. 
The  diligence,  in  passing,  takes  up  as  many  peas- 
ants as  it  meets ;  they  are  put  in  heaps  under  the 
tilt,  among  the  trunks,  alongside  the  dogs;  they 
seem  proud  and  pleased  with  their  lofty  place. 
Legs,  arms  and  heads,  dispose  themselves  as  best 
they  can ;  they  sing,  and  the  coach  appears  like  a 
music-box.  It  is  in  this  triumphal  equipage  that 
you  reach  Bagneres,  after  sunset.  You  dine  in 
haste,  are  taken  to  the  Promenade  des  Coustous,  and 
find,  to  your  utter  surprise,  the  Boulevard  de  Gand 
among  the  Pyrenees. 

Four  rows  of  dusty  trees ;  regular  benches  at 
equal  intervals ;  on  both  sides,  hotels  of  modern  as- 
pect, one  of  which  is  occupied  by  M.  de  Rothschild ; 
rows  of  illuminated  shops,  of  cafes  chantants  sur- 
rounded by  crowds;   terraces   filled   with   seated 


27o 


BA  GNARES  and  L  UCHON,         Book  IV. 


spectators;  upon  the  roadway,  a  black  throng 
streaming  under  the  Hghts.  Such  is  the  spectacle 
beneath  your  eyes.  The  groups  form,  dissolve, 
Close  up ;  you  follow  the  crowd ;  you  learn  again 
the  art  of  getting  on  without  stepping  on  the  feet 
of  those  you  meet,  of  grazing  everybody  without 
elbowing  anybody,  of  not  getting  crushed  and  of 
not  crushing  others  ;  in  short,  all  the  talents  taught 
by  civilization  and  the  asphaltum.  You  meet  again 
with  the  rusde  of  dresses,  the  confused  hum  of  con- 
versations and  steps,  the  offensive  splendor  of  arti- 
ficial lights,  the  obsequious  and  wearied  faces  of 
traffic,  the  skilful  display  of  the  shops,  and  all  the 
sensations  you  wanted  to  leave  behind.  Bagneres- 
de-Bigorre  and  Luchon  are  in  the  Pyrenees  the 
capitals  of  polite  life,  the  meeting  place  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  world  and  of  fashion— Paris,  six 
hundred  miles  away  from  Paris. 

The  next  morning,  in  the  sunlight,  the  aspect  of 
the  city  is  charming.  Great  alleys  of  old  trees 
cross  it  in  every  direction.  Little  gardens  bloom 
upon  the  terraces.  The  Adour  rolls  along  by  the 
houses.  Two  streets  are  islands  connected  with 
the  highway  by  bridges  laden  with  oleanders,  and 
their  green  windows  are  mirrored  in  the  clear  wave. 
Streamlets  of  limpid  water  run  from  all  the  open 
places  and  all  the  streets ;  they  cross,  dive  under 
ground,  reappear,  and  the  city  is  filled  with  their 


Chap.  II.  BAGN^RES-DE-BIGORRE, 


271 


murmurs,  their  coolness,  and  their  gayety.  A  little 
girl,  seated  upon  a  slab  of  slate,  bathes  her  feet  in 
the  current ;  the  cold  water  reddens  them,  and  the 
poor  little  thing  tucks  up  her  worn  gown  with  great 
care,  for  fear  of  wetting  it.  A  woman  on  her  knees 
is  washing  linen  at  her  door ;  another  bends  over 
and  draws  water  for  her  saucepan.  The  two 
black  and  shining  trenches  hedge  in  the  white  road, 
like  two  bands  of  jet.  In  the  inner  court  or  in  the 
vestibule  of  each  house  the  assembled  women  sew 
and  spin,  some  on  the  steps  of  the  stairway,  others 
at  the  feet  of  a  ville ;  they  are  in  the  shade,  but  on 
the  crest  of  the  wall  the  beautiful  green  leaves  are 
traversed  by  a  ray  of  sunlight. 

In  the  neighboring  place,  some  men  ranged  in 
two  lines  were  threshing  wheat  with  long  poles  and 
heaping  up  masses  of  golden  grain.  Under  its 
borrowed  luxury  the  city  preserves  some  rustic  cus- 
toms ;  but  the  rich  light  blends  the  contrasts,  and 
the  threshing  of  the  wheat  has  the  splendor  of 
a  ball.  Further  on  are  some  buildings  where  the 
stream  works  the  marbles.  Slabs,  blocks,  piles  of 
chips,  shapeless  material,  fill  the  court  for  a  length 
of  three  hundred  paces,  among  clusters  of  rose- 
bushes, flowery  borders,  statues,  and'  kiosks.  In 
the  workshops,  heavy  gearings,  troughs  of  muddy 
water,  rusty  saws,  huge  wheels — these  are  the 
workmen.     In  the  storerooms,  columns,  capitals  of 


27* 


BA  GNARES  and  L  UCHON.         Book  IV. 


Chap.  IL  BAGNkRES-DE-BIGORRE. 


273 


an    admirable    polish,   white    chimney-pieces   bor- 
dered  with  leaves  in   relief,  carved   vases,    sculp- 
tured  basins,  trinkets  of  agate— that  is  the  work. 
The   quarries   of  the  Pyrenees  have,  all  of  them, 
given  a  specimen  to  panel  the  walls ;  it  is  a  library 
of  marbles.     There  are  white  ones  like  alabaster, 
rosy  like  living  flesh,  brown  speckled  like  a  guinea 
fowl's  breast— the  Griotte  is  of  a  blood-red.     The 
black  Baudean,    veined  with  white  threads,  emits 
a  greenish  reflection.     The  Ronce  de  Bise  furrows 
its   fawn-colored    dress    with    dark    bands.      The 
grayish  Sarrancolin  has  a  peculiar  glitter,  is  marked 
all   over   with  scales,  striped  with  pale  tints,  and 
stained  with  a  broad  blood-red  spot.     Nature  is 
the    greatest    of  painters;    her    infiltrations    and 
subterranean  fires  could  alone  have  invented  this 
profusion  of  shades   and  patterns :  it  needed  the 
audacious  originality  of  chance  and  the  slow  toil  of 
the  mineral  forces,  to  turn  lines  so  capricious  and 
assort  tints  so  complex. 

A  stream  of  swift  water  rolls  beneath  the  work- 
shops ;  another  glides  in  front  of  the  house,  in  a 
lovely  meadow,  under  a  screen  of  poplars.  In  the 
pale  distance  you  see  the  mountains.  It  is  a  fortu- 
nate spot  considering  that  it  is  a  sawer  of  stone. 


i 


II. 

The  bathing-house  is  a  beautiful  white  building, 
vast  and  regular ;  the  long  front,  quite  unornament- 
ed,  is  of  a  very  simple  form.  This  architecture,  akin 
to  the  antique,  is  more  beautiful  in  the  south  than 
in  the  north  ;  like  the  sky,  it  leaves  in  the  mind  an 
impression  of  serenity  and  grandeur. 

A  half  of  the  river  washes  the  fa9ade,  and  pre- 
cipitates under  the  entrance  bridge  its  black  sheet 
bristling  with  sparkling  waves.  You  enter  into 
a  great  vestibule,  follow  a  huge  staircase  with 
double  balustrade,  then  corridors  ending  in  noble 
porticos  and  commanding  the  terraces.  Bathing 
rooms  panelled  with  marble,  a  verdant  garden,  fine 
points  of  view  everywhere,  high  vaults,  coolness, 
simple  forms,  soft  hues  that  rest  the  eye  and  con- 
trast  with  the  crude,  dazzling  light,  that  out  of  doors 
falls  on  the  dusty  place  and  the  white  houses ;  all 
attracts,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  be  ill  here. 

The  Romans,  a  people  as  civilized  and  as  bored 
as  we,  did  as  we  do,  and  came  to  Bagneres.  The 
inhabitants  of  the  country,  good  courtiers,  con- 
structed, on  the  public  place,  a  temple  in  honor  of 
Augustus.  The  temple  became  a  church  that  was 
dedicated  to  St.  Martin,  but  retained  the  pagan  in- 
scription.  In  1641,  they  removed  the  inscription 
12* 


274 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON,         Book  IV. 

to  above  the  fountain  of  the  southern  entrance, 

where  it  still  is. 

In  1823,  they  discovered  on  the  site  of  the  bath* 
house,  columns,  capitals,  four  piscinae  cased  with 
marbles  and  adorned  with  mouldings,  and  a  large 
number  of  medals  with  effigies  of  the  first  Roman 
emperors.  These  remains,  found  after  a  lapse  of 
eighteen  centuries,  leave  a  deep  impression,  like 
that  one  experiences  in  measuring  the  great  lime- 
stone beds,  antediluvian  sepulchres  of  buried  races. 
Our  cities  are  founded  upon  the  ruins  of  extinct 
civilizations,  and  our  fields  on  the  remains  of  sub- 
verted creations. 

Rome  has  left  its  trace  everywhere  at  Bagneres. 
The  most  agreeable  of  these  souvenirs  of  antiquity 
are   the   monuments   which   those   who  had  been 
healed  erected  in  honor  of  the  Nymphs,  and  whose 
inscriptions  still  remain.     Lying  in  the  baignoires 
of  marble,  they  felt  the  virtue  of  the  beneficent  god- 
dess penetrating  their  limbs  ;  with  eyes  half-closed, 
dozing  in  the  soft  embrace  of  the  tepid  water,  they 
heard  the  mysterious  spring  dripping,  dripping  with 
a  song,  from  the  recesses  of  the  rock,  its  mother ; 
the  outpoured  sheet  shone  about  them  with  dim, 
greenish  reflexes,  and  before  them  passed  like   a 
vision  the  strange  eye  and  magic  voice  of  the  un- 
known divinity,  who  came  to  the  light  in  order  to 
bring  health  to  hapless  mortals. 


Chap.  II.  BAGN^RES-DE-BIGORRE, 


275 


Behind  the  bath-house   is   a  high   hill,  covered 
with  admirable  trees,  where  wind  sequestered  walks. 
Thence  you  see  under  your  feet  the  city,  whose 
.  slated  roofs  reflect  the  powerful  light  of  the  burning 
sky  and  stand  out  in  the  limpid  air  with  a  tawny 
and  leaden  hue.     A  line  of  poplars  marks  on  the 
great  green  plain  the  course  of  the  river ;  towards 
Tarbes    it   strikes    endlessly    into    the    vaporous 
distance,  amidst  tender   hues.     Opposite,  wooded 
and  cultivated  hills  rise,  round-topped,  to  the  very 
horizon.     On  the  right,  the  mountains,  like  so  many 
pyramids,  descend  in  long  regular  quoins.     These 
hills  and  mountains  cut  out  a  sinuous  Hne  on  the 
radiant  border  of  the  sky.     From  the  white   and 
smiling    horizon,    the    eye   mounts   by    insensible 
shades   to   the    deep,  burning   blue    of  the  dome. 
This  whiteness  imparts  a  tender  and  delicious  sen- 
sation, mingling  of  revery  and  pleasure  ;  it  touches, 
troubles  and  delights,  like  the  song  of  Cherubino 
in  Mozart.     A  fresh  wind  comes  from  the  valley ; 
the  body  is  as  comfortable  as  the  mind ;  one  finds 
in  his  nature  a  harmony  hitherto  unknown  ;  he  no 
longer  bears  the  weight  of  his  thought  or  of  his 
mechanism  ;  he  does  nothing  but  feel ;  he  becomes 
thoroughly  animal,  that  is  to  say,  perfectly  happy. 

In  the  evening  we  walk  in  the  plain.  There  are 
in  the  fields  of  maize  retired  paths  where  one  is 
alone      The  tops,  seven  feet  high,  form,  as  it  were, 


276 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.         Book  IV 


a  copse  of  trees.  The  great  sheaf  of  green  leaves 
ends  in  slender  little  columns  of  rosy  grains,  and 
the  slanting  sun  slips  its  arrows  of  gold  among  the 
stalks.  You  find  meadows  cut  by  streams  which 
the  peasants  dam  up,  and  which,  for  several  hours, 
overflow  to  refresh  the  fields.  The  day  declines, 
the  huge  shadow  of  the  mountains  darkens  the  ver- 
dure ;  clouds  of  insects  hum  in  the  heavy  air.  The 
whisper  of  an  expiring  breeze  makes  the  leaves  to 
shiver  for  a  moment.  Meanwhile  the  carriages  and 
the  cavalcades  return  on  all  the  roads,  and  the 
courts  are  illuminated  for  the  evening  promenade. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  PEOPLE, 


I. 

Everybody  agrees  that  life  at  watering-places  la 
very  poetic,  abounding  in  adventures  of  every  sort, 
especially  adventures  of  the  heart.  Read  the 
novels  LAnneau  cC Argent  of  Charles  de  Bernard, 
George  Sand's  Lavinia,  etc. 

If  watering-place  life  is  a  romance,  it  is  in  the  books 
that  it  is  so.  To  see  great  men  in  these  places, 
you  must  carry  them  bound  in  calf  in  your  trunk. 

It  is  equally  agreed  that  conversation  at  watering- 
places  is  extremely  brilliant,  that  you  meet  only 
artists,  superior  men,  people  of  the  great  world ; 
that  ideas,  grace  and  elegance  are  lavished  there, 
and  that  the  flower  of  all  pleasures  and  all  thought 
there  comes  into  bloom. 

The  truth  is  that  you  use  up  a  great  many  hats, 
cat  a  great  many  peaches,  say  a  great  many  words, 
and,  in  the  matter  of  men  and  of  ideas,  you  find 
very  much  what  you  find  elsewhere. 

Here  is  the  catalogue  of  a  salon  better  made  up 
than  many  another : 


i  F 


J 


BAGNMES  and  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


279 


278 

An  old  nobleman,  somewhat  resembling  Balzac's 
M.  de  Mortsauf,  an  officer  previous  to  1830,  very 
brave,  and  capable  of  reasoning  exactly,  when  he 
was  hard  pushed.     He  had  a  great  long   cartila- 
ginous neck,  that  turned  all  together  and  with  diffi- 
culty, like  a  rusty  machine ;  his  feet  shook  about 
in  his  square-toed  shoes ;  the  skirts  of  his  frock-coat 
hung  like  flags  about  his  legs.     His  body  and  his 
clothes  were  stiff,  awkward,  old-fashioned  and  scant, 
like  his  opinions;  a  dotard,  moreover,  fastidious, 
peevish,  busy  all  day  long  in  sifting  over  nothings 
and   complaining    about  trifles;    he    pestered  his 
servant  a  whole  hour  about  a  grain  of  dust  over- 
looked  on   the   skirt   of  his   coat,  explaining  the 
method  of  removing  dust,  the  danger  of  leaving 
dust,  the  defects  of  a  negligent  spirit,  the  merits  of 
a    diligent  spirit,    with   so    much   monotony    and 
tenacity  and  so  slowly,  that  at  last  one  stopped  up 
one's  ears  or  went  to  sleep.     He  took  snuff,  rested 
his  chin  on  his  cane,  and  looked  straight  ahead  with 
the  torpid,  dull  expression  of  a  mummy.     Rustic 
life,  the  want  of  conversation  and  action,  the  fixed- 
ness of  mechanical  habits,  had  extinguished  him. 

Beside  him  sat  an  English  giri  and  her  mother. 
The  young  woman  had  not  succeeded  in  extinguish- 
ing herself,  she  was  frozen  at  her  birth ;  however, 
she  was  motionless  as  he.  She  carried  a  jeweller's 
shop  on  her  arms,  bracelets,  chains,  of  every  form 


Wk 


Chap.  III.  ^ 

and  all  metals,  which  hung  and  jingled  like  little 
bells  The  mother  was  one  of  those  hooked  stalks 
of  asparagus,  knobby,  stuck  into  a  swelling  gown, 
such  as  can  flourish  and  come  to  seed  only  amidst 
the  fogs  of  London.  They  took  tea  and  only 
talked  with  each  other. 

In  the  third  place   one  remarked  a  very  noble 
young  man,  dressed  to  perfection,  curied  every  day. 
with  soft  hands,  forever  washed,  brushed,  adorned 
and  beautified,  and  handsome  as  a  doll.     His  was 
a  formal  and  serious  self-conceit.     His  least  actions 
were  of  an  admirable  correctness  and  gravity.     He 
weighed  every  word  when  he  asked  for  soup.     He 
put  on  his  gloves  with  the  air  of  a  Roman  emperor. 
He  never  laughed ;  in  his  calm  gestures  you  recog- 
nized a  man  penetrated  with  self-respect,  who  raises 
conventionalities  into  principles.     His  complexion, 
his  hands,  his  beard,  and  his  mind,  had  been  so 
scoured,  rubbed,  and  perfumed  by  etiquette,  that 
they  seemed  artificial. 

Ordinarily  he  gave  the  cues  to  a  Moldavian  lady, 
who  kept  the  conversation  alive.  This  lady  had 
travelled  all  over  Europe,  and  related  her  travels  m 
such  a  piercing  and  metallic  voice,  that  you  won- 
dered if  she  had  not  a  clarion  somewhere  m  her 
body  She  held  forth  unassisted,  sometimes  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  together,  principally  about  nee 
and  the  degree  of  civilization  among  the  Turks,  on 


28o 


BAGNARES  and  LUCHON.         Book  IV 


the  barbarism  of  the  Russian  generals,  and  on  the 
baths  of  Constantinople.  Her  well-filled  memory 
only  overflowed  in  tirades :  it  was  almost  as  amus- 
ing as  a  gazetteer. 

Near  her  was  a  pale,  slender,  meagre  Spaniard, 
with  a  face  like  a  knife-blade.  We  knew,  by  some 
words  he  let  fall,  that  he  was  rich  and  a  republican. 
He  spent  his  life  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand, — he 
read  twelve  or  fifteen  of  them  in  a  day,  with  little 
dry,  jerking  movements,  and  nervous  contractions 
that  passed  over  his  face  like  a  shiver.  He  sat 
habitually  in  a  corner,  and  you  saw  gleaming  in  his 
countenance  feeble  desires  of  proclamations  and 
professions  of  faith.  In  the  very  same  moment  his 
glance  died  away  like  a  too  sudden  fire  that  blazes 
up  and  falls  again.  He  only  spoke  in  monosyllables, 
and  to  ask  for  tea.  His  wife  knew  no  French,  and 
sat  all  the  evening  motionless  in  her  arm-chair. 

Must  we  speak  of  an  old  lady  from  Saumur,  a 
frequenter  of  the  baths,  watchful  of  the  heat,  the 
cold,  the  currents  of  air,  the  seasoning,  determined 
not  to  enrich  her  heirs  any  sooner  than  it  was  ne- 
cessary, who  trotted  about  all  day,  and  played  with 
her  dog  in  the  evening  ?  Of  an  abbe  and  his  pupil, 
who  dined  apart,  to  escape  the  contagion  of  worldly 
conversation  ?  etc.  The  truth  is  that  there  is  nothing 
to  paint,  and  that  in  the  next  restaurant  you  will  see 
the  same  people. 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE, 


28t 


Now,  in  good  faith,  what  can  be  the  conversation 
in  such  a  society  ?  As  the  answer  is  important,  I 
beg  the  reader  to  run  over  the  subjoined  classifica- 
tion of  interesting  conversations  ;  he  will  judge  for 
himself  as  to  the  likelihood  of  meeting  at  a  watering- 
place  with  anything  similar. 

First  sort :  Circumlocutions,  oratorical  argumen- 
tation, exordiums  full  of  insinuation,  smiles  and  bows, 
which  may  be  translated  by  the  following  phrase : 
'*  Monsieur,  help  me  to  make  a  thousand  francs." 

Second  sort :  Periphrases,  metaphysical  disquisi- 
tions, the  voice  of  the  soul,  gestures  and  genu- 
flexions, ending  in  this  phrase:  *^  Madame,  allow 
me  to  be  your  very  humble  servant." 

Third  sort:  Two  persons  who  have  need  of 
each  other  are  together ;  abstract  of  their  conversa- 
tion :    "  You  are  a  great  man."     "  And  so  are  you." 

Fourth  sort :  You  are  seated  at  the  fireside  with 
an  old  friend ;  you  stir  up  the  embers  and  talk  of — 
no  matter  what,  for  instance :  "  Would  you  like  some 
tea  ?  My  cigar  is  out."  Or,  what  is  better,  you  say 
nothing  at  all,  and  listen  to  the  singing  of  the  tea- 
kettle ;  all  actions,  which  mean :  **  You  are  a  good 
fellow,  and  would  do  me  a  service  in  case  of  need." 

Fifth  sort:  New  general  ideas  and  freely  ex- 
pressed ;  sort  lost  sight  of  these  hundred  years.  It 
was  known  in  the  salons  of  the  eighteenth  century ; 
genus  to-day  fossil. 


282 


BA  GNARES  and  L  UCHON,        Book  IV. 


Sixth,  and  last  sort :  Discharges  of  wit,  fireworks 
of  brilliant  speeches,  images  struck  out,  colors  dis- 
played, profusion  of  animation,  originality  and  gay- 
ety.  A  sort  infinitely  rare  and  diminished  every 
day,  by  the  fear  of  compromising  one's  self,  by  the 
important  air,  by  the  affectation  of  morality. 

These  six  sorts  wanting — and  they  are  evidently 
wanting — what  remains  ?  Conversation  such  as 
Henri  Monnier  paints,  and  M.  Prudhomme  makes. 
Only  the  manners  here  are  better ;  for  instance,  we 
know  that  we  ought  to  help*  ourselves  last  to  soup, 
and  first  to  salad;  we  are  provided  with  certain 
proper  phrases  which  we  exchange  for  other  proper 
phrases ;  we  answer  to  an  anticipated  motion  by  an 
anticipated  motion,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Chinese ; 
we  come  to  yawn  inwardly  and  smile  outwardly,  in 
company  and  in  state.  This  comedy  of  affectations 
and  the  commerce  of  ennui  form  the  conversation 
at  the  springs  and  elsewhere. 

Accordingly  many  people  go  to  take  the  air  in 
the  streets. 


II. 

The  street  is  full  of  downcast  faces;  lawyers, 
bankers,  people  tired  with  office  work,  or  bored 
with  having  too  much  fortune  and  too  little  trouble. 
In  the  evening,  they  go  to  Frascati  or  watch  the 
loungers  who  elbow  each  other  among  the  shops 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


283 


on  the  course.  During  the  day  they  drink  and 
bathe  a  little,  ride  and  smoke  a  good  deal.  The 
bloated  patients,  stretched  on  arm-chairs,  digest 
their  food ;  the  lean  study  the  newspapers ;  the 
young  men  talk  with  the  ladies  about  the  weather ; 
the  ladies  are  busy  in  rounding  their  petticoats 
aright:  the  old,  who  are  critics  and  philosophers, 
take  snuff,  or  look  at  the  mountains  with  glasses, 
to  ascertain  if  the  engravings  are  exact.  It  is  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  having  so  much  money,  merely 
to  have  so  little  pleasure. 

This  ennui  proves  that  life  resembles  the  opera ; 
to  be  happy  there,  you  must  have  money  for  your 
ticket,  but,  also,  the  sentiment  of  music.  If  the 
money  is  wanting,  you  remain  outside  in  the  rain 
among  the  boot-blacks ;  if  you  have  no  taste  for 
music,  you  sleep  sullenly  in  your  superb  box.  I 
conclude  that  we  must  try  to  earn  the  four  francs 
for  the  parterre,  but  above  all  to  make  ourselves 
acquainted  with  music. 

The  promenades  are  too  neat  and  recall  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne;  here  and  there  a  tired  broom  leans 
against  a  tree  its  slanting  silhouette.  From  the 
depths  of  a  thicket  the  sergents  de  ville  cast  on  you 
their  eagle  glance,  and  the  dung  decorates  the 
alleys  with  its  poetic  heaps. 


An  invalid  always  brings  with  him  one  or  more 


284 


BA  GNERES  AND  L  UCHON. 


Book  IV. 


companion^.  Where  is  the  being  so  disinherited 
by  heaven  as  not  to  have  a  relation  or  friend  v^ho 
is  bored  ?  And  where  is  the  friend  or  relation  so 
thankless  as  to  refuse  a  service  which  is  a  pleasure 
party  ?  The  invalid  drinks  and  bathes  ;  the  friend 
wears  gaiters  or  rides,  hence  the  species  of  tourists. 
This  species  comprises  several  varieties,  which 
are  distinguished  by  the  song,  the  plumage,  and  the 
gait.     These  are  the  principal : 


ONE. 

The  first  has  long  legs,  lean  body,  head  bent 
forward,  large  and  powerful  feet,  vigorous  hands, 
excellent  at  grasping  and  holding  on.  It  is  pro- 
vided with  canes,  ferruled  sticks,  umbrellas,  cloaks, 
india-rubber  top-coats.  It  despises  dress,  shows 
itself  but  little  in  society,  knows  thoroughly  guides 
and  hotels.  It  strides  over  the  ground  in  an  admi- 
rable manner,  rides  with  saddle,  without  saddle,  in 
every  way  and  all  possible  beasts.  It  walks  for 
the  sake  of  walking,  and  to  have  the  right  of 
repeating  several  fine,  ready-made  phrases. 

I  found,  and  picked  up,  at  Eaux-Chaudes,  the 
journal  of  one  of  these  walking  tourists.  It  is 
entitled :  My  Impressions, 

"15th  July. — Ascent  of  Vignemale.  Set  out  at 
midnight,  came  back  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening. 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


285 


Appetite  on  the  summit;  excellent  dinner,  pate, 
fowls,  trout,  claret,  kirsch.  RIy  horse  stumbled 
eleven  times.  Feet  galled.  Rondo,  good  guide. 
Total :  sixty-seven  francs. 

^  "  20th  July.— Ascent  of  the  Pic  du  Midi  de  Bigorre. 
Fifteen  hours.  Sanio,  fair  guide;  knows  neither 
songs  nor  stories.  Good  sleep  for  an  hour  at  the 
top.  Two  botdes  broken,  which  rather  spoiled  the 
provisions.     Thirty-eight  francs. 

"2 1st  July.— Excursion  to  the  Valley  of  Heas. 
Too  many  stones  in  the  road.  Twenty-one  miles. 
Must  exercise  every  day.  To-morrow  will  walk 
twenty-four. 

"  24th  July.— Excursion  to  the  Valley  of  Aspe. 
Twenty-seven  miles. 

"  1st  August.— Lake  of  Oo.  Good  water,  very 
cold ;  the  bottles  were  well  cooled. 

"  2d  August.— Valley  of  the  Arboust.  Met  three 
caravans  ;  two  of  donkeys,  one  of  horses.  Thirty 
miles.     Throat  raw.     Corns  on  the  feet. 

"  3d  August— Ascent  of  the  Maladetta.  Three 
days.  Sleep  at  the  Rencluse  de  la  Maladetta. 
My  large  double  cloak  with  the  fur  collar  keeps  me 
from  being  frozen.  In  the  morning  I  make  the 
omelette  myself.  Punch  with  snow.  Second  night 
in  the  Vale  of  Malibierne.  Passage  of  the  Gla- 
cier.  My  right  shoe  gets  torn.  Arrival  at  the 
Bummit.     View  of  three  botdes  left  by  the  preced- 


286 


BA  GNERES  AND  L  UCHON, 


Book  IV. 


ing  tourists.  For  amusement,  I  read  a  number  of 
the  journal  des  Chasseurs,  On  my  return,  I  am 
entertained  by  the  guides.  Bagpipes  in  the  evening 
at  my  door  ;  great  bouquet  with  a  ribbon.  Total  : 
one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  francs. 

*'  15th  August. — Leave  the  Pyrenees.  Three 
hundred  and  ninety-one  leagues  in  a  month,  on 
foot  as  well  as  on  horse  and  in  carriage.  Eleven 
ascents,  eighteen  excursions.  I  have  used  up  two 
ferruled  sticks,  a  top-coat,  three  pairs  of  trousers, 
five  pairs  of  shoes.     Good  year. 

"  P.S. — Sublime  country.  My  spirit  bows  be- 
neath these  great  emotions." 


TWO. 

The  second  variety  comprises  thoughtful  metho- 
dical people,  generally  wearing  spectacles,  endowed 
with  a  passionate  confidence  in  the  printed  letter. 
You  know  them  by  the  guide-book,  which  they 
always  carry  in  their  hand.  This  book  is  to  them 
the  law  and  the  prophets.  They  eat  trout  at  the 
place  named  in  the  book,  make  all  the  stops  ad- 
vised by  the  book,  dispute  with  the  innkeeper  when 
he  asks  more  than  is  marked  in  the  book.  You 
see  them  at  the  remarkable  points  with  their  eyes 
fixed  on  the  book,  filling  themselves  with  the  de- 
scription, and  informing  themselves  exactly  of  the 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE, 


287 


sort  of  emotion  which  it  is  proper  to  feel.     On  the 
eve  of  an  excursion,  they  study  the  book  and  learn 
in  advance  the  order  and  connection  of  the  sensa- 
tions  they  ought  to  experience:  first,  surprise;  a 
little  further  on  a  tender  impression ;  three  miles  be- 
yond, chilled  with  horror ;  finally  a  calm  sensibility. 
They   do   and    feel    nothing   but  with  documents 
in   hand  and  on  good  authority.     On  reaching   a 
hotel,  their  first  care   is  to  ask   their  neighbor  at 
the  table  if  there  is  any  place  of  reunion ;  at  what 
hour  people  meet  there ;  how  the  different  hours  of 
the  day  are  filled  up;   what  walk  is  taken  in  the 
afternoon ;  what  other  in  the  evening.     The  next 
day  they  follow  all  these  directions  conscientiously. 
They   are    clad    in    watering-place    fashion;    they 
change  their  dress  as  many  times  as  the  custom  of 
the  places  deems  proper;  they  make  all  the  excur- 
sions they  ought  to  make  at  the  necessary  hour,  in 
the  proper  equipage.     Have  they  any  taste  ?    It  is 
impossible   to   say;   the  book  and  public   opinion 
have  thought  and  decided  for  them.     They  have 
the  consolation  of  thinking  that  they  have  walked 
in  the  broad  xox\  and  are  imitators  of  the  human 
kind.     These  are  the  docile  tourists. 


2&S 


BAGNkRES  AND  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


THREE. 


The  third  variety  walks  in  troops  and  makes  its 
excursions  by  families.  You  see  from  afar  a  great 
peaceable  cavalcade;  father,  mother,  two  daugh- 
ters, two  tall  cousins,  one  or  two  friends  and  some- 
times donkeys  for  the  litde  boys.  They  beat  the 
donkeys,  which  are  restive  ;  they  advise  the  fiery 
youths  to  be  prudent ;  a  glance  retains  the  young 
ladies  about  the  green  veil  of  the  mother.  The  dis- 
tinctive traits  of  this  variety  are  the  green  veil,  the 
bourgeois  spirit,  the  love  of  siestas  and  meals  on 
the  grass;  an  unfailing  sign  is  the  taste  for  little 
social  games.  This  variety  is  rare  at  Eaux-Bonnes, 
more  common  at  Bagneres  de  Bigorre  and  at  Bag- 
neres  de  Luchon.  It  is  remarkable  for  its  prudence, 
its  culinary  instincts,  its  economical  habits.  The 
individuals  making  the  excursion  stop  at  a  spot 
selected  the  day  before;  they  unload  pates  and 
bottles.  If  they  have  brought  nothing,  they  go  and 
knock  at  the  nearest  hut  for  milk ;  they  are  aston- 
ished at  having  to  pay  three  sous  a  glass  for  it : 
they  find  that  it  strongly  resembles  goat^s  milk,  and 
they  say  to  each  other,  after  they  have  drunken, 
that  the  wooden  spoon  was  not  over-clean.  They 
look  curiously  at  the  dark  stable,  half  underground, 
where  the  cows  ruminate  on  beds  of  heather ;  after 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE, 


289 


which,  the  great  fat  men  seat  themselves  or  'I'e 
down.  The  artist  of  the  family  draws  out  his 
album  and  copies  a  bridge,  a  mill,  and  other  album 
views.  The  young  girls  run  and  laugh,  and  let 
themselves  drop  out  of  breath  upon  the  grass ;  the 
young  men  run  after  them.  This  variety,  indige- 
nous in  the  great  cities,  in  Paris  above  all,  wishes  to 
revive  among  the  Pyrenees  the  pleasure  parties 
of  Meudon  or  Montmorency. 


FOUR. 

Fourth  kind :  dining  tourists.  At  Louvie,  a  family 
from  Carcassonne,  father,  mother,  son,  daughter 
and  servant,  alighted  from  the  interior.  For  the 
first  time  in  their  life  they  were  undertaking  a 
pleasure  trip.  The  father  was  one  of  those  florid 
bourgeois,  pot-bellied,  important,  dogmatic,  well- 
clad  in  fine  cloth,  carefully  preserved,  who  educate 
their  cooks,  arrange  their  house  en  bonbonniere^ 
and  establish  themselves  in  their  comfort,  like  an 
oyster  in  its  shell.  They  entered  stupefied  into  a 
dark  dining-room,  where  the  half-empty  bottles 
strayed  among  the  cooling  dishes.  The  cloth  was 
soiled,  the  napkins  of  a  doubtful  white.  The  father, 
*  indignant,  asked  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  began  walk- 
ing up  and  down  with  a  tragic  air.     The  rest  looked 

at  each  other  mournfully  and  sat  down.     The  dishes 
13 


290 


BAGNMRES  and  LUCHON,         Book  IV. 


came  helter-skelter,  all  of  them  failures.  Our  Car- 
cassonne friends  helped  themselves,  turned  the 
meat  over  on  their  plates,  looked  at  it,  and  did  not 
eat.  They  ordered  tea  a  second  time  ;  the  tea  did 
not  appear ;  the  travellers  were  called  for  the  coach, 
and  the  landlord  demanded  twelve  francs.  With- 
out saying  a  word,  with  a  gesture  of  concen- 
trated horror,  the  head  of  the  family  paid.  Then, 
approaching  his  wife,  he  said  to  her :  "  It  was  your 
wish,  madam ! "  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the 
storm  burst  forth  ;  he  poured  his  complaint  into  the 
bosom  of  the  conductor.  He  declared  that  the 
company  would  fail  if  it  changed  horses  at  such  a 
poisoner's ;  he  trusted  that  disease  would  soon  carry 
off  such  dirty  people.  They  told  him  that  every- 
body in  the  country  was  so,  and  that  they  lived 
happily  for  eighty  years.  He  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  repressed  his  grief,  and  directed  his  thoughts 
toward  Carcassonne. 


FIVE. 


Fifth  variety ;  rare :  learned  tourists. 

One  day,  at  the  foot  of  a  damp  rock,  I  saw  a 
litde  lean  man  coming  toward  me,  with  a  nose  like 
an  eagle's  beak ;  a  hatchet  face,  green  eyes,  griz- 
zling  locks,  nervous,  jerky  movements,  and  some 
thing  quaint  and  earnest  in  his  countenance.  He 
had  on   huge  gaiters,  and  old  black,  rain-beaten 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


293 


cap,  trousers  spattered  to  the  knee  with  mud,  a 
botanical  case  full  of  dents  on  his  back,  and  in  his 
hand  a  small  spade.  Unfortunately  I  was  looking 
at  a  plant  with  long,  straight,  green  stalk,  and  white, 
delicate  corolla,  which  grew  near  some  hidden- 
springs.  He  took  me  for  a  raw  fellow-botanist. 
*'Ah,  here  you  are,  gathering  plants!  What,  by 
the  stalk,  clumsy  ?  What  will  it  do  in  your  her- 
barium without  roots  ?  Where  is  your  case  1  your 
weeder  ?  " 

"But,  sir—" 

"Common  plant,  frequent  in  the  environs  of 
Paris,  Parnassia  palustris :  stem  simple,  erect,  a 
foot  in  height,  glabrous,  radical  leaves  petiolate 
(sheathing  caulis,  sessile),  cordiform,  entirely  gla- 
brous;  simple  flower,  white,  terminal,  the  calix 
with  lanceolate  leaves,  petals  rounded,  marked 
with  hollow  lines,  nectaries  ciliate  and  furnished 
with  yellow  globules  at  the  extremity  of  the  cilia 
resembling  pistils;  helleboraceous.  Those  nec- 
taries are  curious ;  good  study,  plant  well  chosen. 
Courage !  you'll  get  on." 

"  But  I  am  no  botanist !  " 

"Very  good,  you  are  modest.  However,  since 
you  are  in  the  Pyrenees,  you  must  study  the  flora 
of  the  country ;  you  will  not  find  another  such  op- 
portunity. There  are  rare  plants  here  which  you 
should  absolutely  carry  away.      I  gathered  near 


292 


BAGNMRES  and  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


Oleth,  the  Menziesra  Daboeci,  an  inestimable  god- 
send. I  will  show  you  at  the  house  the  Ramondia 
PyrenaicUy  solanaceous  with  the  aspect  of  the  prim- 
rose. I  scaled  Mont  Perdu  to  find  the  Ranunculus 
parnassifolius  mentioned  by  Ramond,  and  which 
grows  at  a  height  of  2,700  metres.  Hah  !  what  is 
that !  the  Aquilegia  Pyrenaica  !  " 

And  my  little  man  started  off  like  an  isard,  clam- 
bered up  a  slope,  carefully  dug  the  soil  about  the 
flower,  took  it  up,  without  cutting  a  single  root,  and 
returned  with  sparkling  eyes,  triumphant  air,  and 
holding  it  aloft  like  a  banner. 

**  Plant  peculiar  to  the  Pyrenees.  I  have  long 
wanted  it;  the  specimen  is  excellent.  Come,  my 
young  friend,  a  slight  examination :  you  don't  know 
the  species,  but  you  recognize  the  family  ?  " 
"Alas!  I  don't  know  a  word  of  botany." 
He  looked  at  me  stupefied.  ''And  why  do  you 
gather  plants  ?  " 

'*  To  see  them,  because  they  are  pretty." 
He  put  his  flower  into  his  case,  adjusted  his  cap, 
and  went  off  without  adding  another  word. 


SIX. 


Sixth  variety ;  very  numerous :  sedentary  tourists. 
They  gaze  on  the  mountains  from  their  windows ; 
their  excursions  consist  in  going  from  their  room 


Chap.  Ill 


THE  PEOPLE. 


293 


to  the  English  garden,  from  the  English  garden  to 
the  promenade.  They  take  a  siesta  upon  the  heath, 
and  read  the  journal  stretched  on  a  chair;  after 
which  they  have  seen  the  Pyrenees. 


SEVEN. 

There  was  a  grand  ball  yesterday.  Paul  pre- 
sented there  a  young  Creole  from  Venezuela  in 
America ;  the  young  man  has  as  yet  seen  nothing ; 
he  has  just  left  ship  at  Bordeaux,  whence  he  comes 
here ;  a  very  fine  fellow,  however,  of  a  fine,  olive 
complexion ;  great  hunter,  and  better  fitted  for 
frequenting  mountains  than  drawing-rooms.  He 
comes  to  France  to  form  himself,  as  they  say ;  Paul 
pretends  that  it  is  to  be  deformed. 

We  have  taken  our  place  in  a  corner,  and  the 

young  man  has  asked  Paul   to  define  to  him  a 

ball. 

"  A  great  funereal  and  penitential  ceremony." 

*'  Pshaw ! " 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  and  the  custom  goes  back  a 

long  way." 

-Indeed?" 

'*  Back  to  Henry  III.  who  Instituted  assemblies 
of  flagellants.  The  men  of  the  court  bared  their 
backs,  and  met  together  to  lash  one  another  over 
the  shoulders.     Nowadays  there  is  no  longer  any 


294 


BA  GNARES  and  L  UCHON.         Book  IV. 


whipping,  but  the  sadness  is  the  same.  All  the 
men  who  are  here  come  to  expiate  great  sins  or 
have  just  lost  their  relations." 

,     "  That  is  the  reason  why  they  are  dressed  in 
black." 

"  Precisely." 

"  But  the  ladies  are  in  magnificent  dresses." 

"They  mortify  themselves  only  the  better  for 
that.  Each  one  has  hung  around  the  loins  a  sort 
of  haircloth,  that  horrible  load  of  petticoats  which 
hurts  them  and  finally  makes  them  ill.  This  is 
after  the  example  of  the  saints,  the  better  to  work 
out  salvation." 

''  But  all  the  men  are  smiling." 

"  That  is  the  finest  thing  about  it ;  cramped  as 
they  are,  shut  up  in  their  winding-sheet  of  black 
cloth.  They  impose  restraint  on  themselves,  and 
give  proof  of  virtue.  Go  forward  six  steps,  you 
will  see." 

The  young  man  advanced ;  not  yet  used  to  the 
movements  of  a  drawing-room,  he  stepped  on  the 
feet  of  a  dancer  and  smashed  the  hat  of  a  melan- 
choly gentleman.  He  returned,  covered  with  con- 
fusion,  to  hide  himself  beside  us. 

"  What  did  your  two  poor  devils  say  to  you  }  " 
"  I  don't  at  all  understand.     The  first,  after  an 
involuntary  wry  face,  looked  at  me  amiably.      The 
other  put  his  hat  under  his  other  arm  and  bowed.' 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE, 


295 


"  Humility,  resignation,  a  wish  to  suffer  in  order 
to  enhance  their  merits.  Under  Henry  III.  they 
thanked  him  who  had  strapped  them  the  best.  I 
will  make  a  musician  talk ;  listen.  Monsieur 
Steuben,  what  quadrille  are  you  playing  there?" 

"  L'Enfer,  a  fantastic  quadrille.  It  is  the  legend 
of  a  young  girl  carried  off  alive  in  the  clutches  of 
the  devil." 

"  It  is,  indeed  ?  " 

"Very  expressive.  The  finale  expresses  her 
cries  of  grief  and  the  howling  of  the  demons.  The 
young  girl  makes  the  air,  the  demons  the  bass." 

"  And  you  play  after  that  ?  " 

"  Some  country  dances  on  di  tanti  palpitu' 

"  Recall  for  me  now  the  idea  of  that  air." 

"  It  is  at  the  return  of  Tancred.  The  point  is 
to  paint  the  most  touching  sadness." 

"  Excellent  choice.  And  no  mazurkas,  no 
waltzes  ?  " 

"  Presently ;  here  is  a  great  book  of  Chopin ;  he 
is  our  favorite.  What  a  master  !  What  fever  !  what 
cries,  sorrowful,  uncertain,  broken!  All  these 
mazurkas  make  one  want  to  weep." 

**  That  is  why  they  are  danced  ;  you  see,  my 
dear  child,  only  afflicted  people  could  select  such 
music.  By  the  way,  how  do  they  dance  with  you  ?  " 

**  With  us  ?  we  jump  and  stir  about,  we  laugh 
out,  shout,  perhaps." 


296 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON. 


Book  IV. 


*'  What  comical  folks  !  and  why  ?  " 

**  Because  they  are  happy  and  want  to  stir  their 
limbs." 

'*  Here,  four  steps  forward,  as  many  back,  a 
turn  cramped  by  the  conflict  of  neighboring  dresses, 
two  or  three  geometric  inclinations.  The  cotton - 
spinners  in  the  prison  at  Poissy  make  precisely  the 
same  motions." 

"  But  these  people  talk." 

"  Go  forward  and  listen ;  there  is  nothing  incon- 
siderate about  it,  I  assure  you." 

He  returns  after  a  minute. 

"  What  did  the  man  say  ?  " 

"  The  gentleman  came  up  briskly,  smiled  deli- 
cately, and,  with  a  gesture  as  of  a  happy  discov- 
erer,  he  remarked  that  it  was  warm." 

"  And  the  lady .?  " 

'*  The  lady's  eyes  flashed.  With  an  enchanting 
smile  of  approval,  she  answered  that  it  was 
indeed." 

"Judge  what  constraint  they  must  have  im- 
posed on  themselves.  The  gentleman  is  thirty 
years  old ;  for  twelve  years  he  has  known  his 
phrase ;  the  lady  is  twenty-two,  she  has  known 
hers  for  seven  years.  Each  has  made  and  heard 
the  question  and  answer  three  or  four  thousand 
times,  and  yet  they  appear  to  be  interested,  sur- 
prised.    What  empire  over  self!     What  force  of 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


297 


nature!  You  see  clearly  that  these  French  who 
are  called  light  are  stoics  on  occasion." 

"  My  eyes  smart,  my  feet  are  swollen,  I  have 
been  swallowing  dust;  it  is  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  air  smells  bad,  I  should  like  to  go. 
Will  they  remain  much  longer  ?  " 

'*  Until  five  o'clock  in  the  morning." 


EIGHT. 

Two  days  after  there  was  a  concert.  The 
Creole  said  in  coming  out  that  he  was  very  tired, 
and  had  understood  nothing  of  all  that  buzzing,  and 
begged  Paul  to  explain  to  him  what  pleasure  peo- 
ple found  in  such  noise. 

"  For,"  said  he,  *'  they  have  enjoyed  it,  since 
they  paid  six  francs  for  admission,  and  applauded 
vehemently." 

**  Music  awakes  all  sorts  of  agreeable  rev- 
eries. 

"  Let  us  see." 

**Such  an  air  suggests  scenes  of  love;  such 
another  makes  you  imagine  great  landscapes,  tragic 
events." 

"  And  if  you  don't  have  these  reveries,  the  music 
bores .?  " 

"  Certainly ;    unless  you   are   professor  of  har- 

mony." 
13* 


298 


BAGNARES  and  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE, 


299 


"  But  the  audience  were  not  professors  of  har- 
mony?" 

"  No  indeed." 

"So  that  they  have  all  had  all  those  reveries 
you  talk  about,  otherwise  they  would  be  bored; 
and,  if  they  were  bored,  they  would  neither  have 
paid  nor  applauded." 

''Well  argued." 

*'  Explain  then  to  me  the  reveries  they  have  had ; 
for  example,  that  serenade  mentioned  in  the  pro 
gramme,  the  serenade  from  Don  Pasquale." 

"  It  paints  a  happy  love,  full  of  pleasure  and  un- 
concern. You  see  a  handsome  youth  with  laugh- 
ing eyes  and  blooming  cheek,  in  a  garden  in  Italy ; 
under  a  tranquil  moon,  by  the  whispering  of  the 
breeze,  he  awaits  his  mistress,  thinks  of  her  smile, 
and  little  by  little,  in  measured  notes,  joy  and  ten- 
derness spring  harmoniously  from  his  heart." 

''What,  they  imagined  all  that!  What  happy 
country-folk  are  your  people!  What  fulness  of 
emotion  and  thought !  What  discreet  counte- 
nances!  I  should  never  have  suspected,  to  see 
them,  that  they  were  having  so  sweet  a  dream." 

"The  second  piece  was  an  andante  of  Beethoven." 

"  What  about  Beethoven  ?  " 

"A  poor,  great  man,  deaf,  loving,  misunder- 
stood, and  a  philosopher,  whose  music  is  full  of 
gigantic  or  sorrowful  dreams." 


"  What  dreams  ?  " 

" '  Eternity  is  a  great  eyry,  whence  all  the  centu- 
ries, like  young  eaglets,  have  flown  in  turn  to  cross 
^the  heavens  and  disappear.  Ours  is  in  its  turn 
come  to  the  brink  of  the  nest ;  but  they  have 
clipped  its  wings,  and  it  awaits  death  while  gazing 
upon  space,  into  which  it  cannot  take  flight.'  " 

"  What  is  that  you  are  reciting  to  me  ?" 

"  A  sentence  of  de  Musset,  which  translates  your 
andante." 

"What!  In  three  minutes  they  passed  from 
the  first  idea  to  this.  What  men  !  What  flexi- 
bility of  spirit!  I  should  never  have  believed 
in  such  readiness.  Without  tripping,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  they  entered  this  reverie  on  leaving  a 
serenade  ?  What  hearts  !  What  artists  !  You 
make  me  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself:  I  shall 
never  again  dare  to  say  a  word  to  them." 

"  The  third  piece,  a  duo  of  Mozart's,  expresses 
quite  German  sentiments,  an  artless  candor,  melan- 
choly, contemplative  tenderness,  the  half-defined 
smile,  the  timidity  of  love." 

"So  that  their  imagination,  which  was  still 
in  a  perfect  state  of  distraction,  is  in  a  moment  so 
transformed  as  to  represent  the  confidence,  the 
innocence,  the  touching  agitation  of  a  young 
girl .? " 

"  Certainly." 


300 


BA  GN&RES  AND  L  UCHOK         Book  IV. 


"  And  there  are  seven  or  eight  pieces  in  a  con- 
cert ?  " 

*'  At  least.  Moreover,  these  pieces  being  taken 
from  three  or  four  countries  and  two  or  three  cen- 
turies, the  audience  must  suddenly  assume  the 
sentiments,  opposite  as  they  are  and  varied,  of  all 
these  centuries  and  of  all  these  countries." 

*' And  they  were  crowded  on  benches,  under  a 

glaring  light." 

'*  And  in  the  pauses,  the  men  talked  railroads, 

the  ladies  dresses." 

"  I  am  getting  confused.  I,  when  I  dream,  want 
to  be  alone,  at  my  ease,  or  at  most  with  a  friend. 
If  music  touches  me,  it  is  in  a  little  dark  room, 
when  some  one  plays  airs  of  one  sort,  that  suit  my 
state  of  mind.  It  is  not  necessary  that  any  one 
should  talk  to  me  about  positive  things.  Dreams 
do  not  come  to  me  at  will ;  they  fly  away  in  spite  of 
me.  I  see  clearly  that  I  am  on  another  continent, 
with   an   entirely   different   race.      One   learns   in 

travelling." 

A  suspicion  seized  him :  ''Perhaps  they  had  come 
there  for  penance?  When  they  came  out,  I  saw 
them  yawning,  and  dejected  in  countenance." 

**  Don  t  believe  anything  of  it.  It  is  because 
they  restrain  themselves.  Otherwise,  they  would 
burst  into  tears  and  throw  themselves  on  your 
neck." 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


301 


NINE. 


In  the  evening  our  Creole,  who  had  been  think- 
ing, said  to  Paul: 

"  Since  you  are  such  musicians  in  France,  your 
well-educated  girls  must  all  learn  music  ?  " 

"  Three  hours  of  scales  every  day,  for  thirteen 
years,  from  seven  to  twenty ;  total,  fourteen  thou- 
sand hours." 

''  They  profit  by  it  }  " 

'*  One  out  of  eight ;  of  the  other  seven,  three 
become  good  hand-organs,  four  poor  hand-organs." 

"  I  suppose  for  a  compensation  they  are  made  to 
read  ?  " 

"  Le  Ragois,  La  Harpe,  and  other  dictionaries, 
all  sorts  of  little  treatises  of  florid  piety." 

"  What  then  is  your  education  ?  " 

"A  pretty  case  embahned  with  incense,  per- 
fumed, securely  padlocked,  where  the  mind  sleeps 
while  the  fingers  turn  a  bird-organ." 

''Well,  that  is  encouraging  for  the  husband. 
And  what  does  he  do  ?  " 

"  He  receives   the  key  of  the  case,  opens  it ;  a 
little  devil  in  a  white  dress  jumps  at  his  nose,  eager . 
to  dance  and  get  out." 

"  Very  well,  the  husband  serves  as  guide.  Has 
he  other  cares  }  " 


302 


BAGNARES  and  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


'*  Perhaps  so." 

**  For  instance  ?  " 

"An  apartment,  third  floor,  costs  two  thousand 
francs,  the  dress  of  the  wife  fifteen  hundred,  the 
education  of  a  child,  a  thousand ;  the  husband  earns 
six  thousand." 

'*  I  understand ;  while  dancing,  they  think  of  all 
sorts  of  melancholy  things." 

*'  Of  economizing,  keeping  up  appearances,  flat- 
tering, calculating." 

"  What  then  is  marriage  with  you  ?  " 

"An  act  of  society  between  a  minister  of  foreign 
relations  and  a  minister  of  the  interior." 

"  And  for  preparation  they  have  learned — " 

"To  roll  off  scales,  to  shine  in  trills,  to  shift  their 
wrists.     Prestidigitation  instructs  in  housekeeping." 

"Decidedly,  you  Europeans  have  a  fine  logic. 
And  the  eighth  girl,  the  one  who  does  not  become 
a  hand-organ  ?  " 

"The  piano  forms  her  too.  It  answers  for 
everything,  everywhere.     Beneficent  machine  !  " 

"How  is  that?" 

"  It  exalts  and  refines.  Mendelssohn  surrounds 
them  with  ardent,  delicate,  morbid  imaginings. 
Rossini  fills  their  nerves  with  an  expansive  and 
voluptuous  joy.  The  sharp,  tormented  desires,  the 
broken,  rebel  cries  of  modern  passions,  rise  from 
every    strain   of  Meyerbeer.      Mozart    awakes    in 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


303 


them  a  swarm  of  affections  and  dim  longings. 
They  live  in  a  cloud  of  emotions  and  sensations." 
"  The  other  arts  would  do  as  much." 
"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Literature  is  a  living  psycha 
logy,  painting  a  living  physiology.  Music  alone 
invents  all,  copies  nothing,  is  a  pure  dream,  gives 
free  rein  to  dreams." 

"  And  probably  they  strike  out  into  it." 
'*  With  all  the  ardor  of  their  ignorance,  their  sex, 
imagination,  idleness,  and  their  twenty  years." 

'*  Well,  of  evenings  they  have  the  poetry  of  the 
family  and  the  world  for  pasture." 

'*In  the  evening,  a  night-capped  gentleman, 
their  husband,  talks  to  them  of  his  reports  and  his 
practice.  The  children  in  their  cradle  are  spoiled 
or  grumble.  The  cook  brings  her  account.  They 
bow  to  fifteen  men  in  their  salon,  and  compliment 
fifteen  ladies  on  their  dresses.  In  addition,  once 
in  awhile,  the  penitential  and  funereal  ceremony 
you  saw  three  days  ago." 

"  But  then  the  piano  seems  chosen  expressly." 
"  To  resign  them  at  the  outset  to  the  meanness 
of  a  commonplace  condition,  the  nothingness  of  the 
feminine  condition,  the  wretchedness  of  the  human 
condition.  It  is  plain  that  all  will  be  content,  that 
none  will  become  languishing  or  sharp.  Dear  and 
beneficent  instrument!  Salute  it  with  respect, 
when   you   enter   a   room.      It  is   the   source   of 


304 


BAGNMES  and  LUCHON,         Book  IV. 


domestic  concord,  of  feminine  patience  and  conju- 
gal bliss." 

'*  Saint  Jacques,  I  swear  that  my  wife  shall  not 
Jcnow  music ! " 

"  You  are  making  bachelor's  vows,  my  dear 
friend.  Nowadays  every  girl  who  wears  gloves 
has  made  her  fingers  run  over  that  machine ;  other- 
wise she  would  think  herself  no  better  than  a 
washerwoman." 

"  I  will  marry  my  washerwoman." 

**The  day  after  your  wedding  she  will  have  a 
piano  brought  in." 


Paul  has  sprained  his  foot  and  spent  two  days  in 
his  room,  occupied  in  watching  a  poultry  yard. 
He  improves  the  occasion  by  writing  the  following 
little  treatise  for  the  use  of  the  young  Creole,  a  sort 
of  viaticum,  with  which  he  will  nourish  himself  for 
the  better  understanding  of  the  world.  I  thought 
the  treatise  melancholy  and  skeptical.  Paul  replies, 
that  one  should  be  so  at  first,  in  order  not  to  be 
afterward,  and  that  it  is  well  to  be  a  little  skeptical 
if  you  wish  not  to  be  too  skeptical. 


LIFE    AND     PHILOSOPHICAL    OPINIONS     OF   A     CAT. 

I. 

I  WAS  born  in  a  cask,  at  the  back  of  a  hay-loft  ; 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


305 


the  light  fell  on  my  closed  eyelids,  so  that  the  first 
eio-ht  days,  everything  appeared  rose-colored  to  me. 
The  eighth,  it  was  still  better ;  I  looked,  and  saw 
a  great  fall  of  light  upon  the  dark  shade ;  the  dust 
and  insects  danced  in  it.     The  hay  was  warm  and 
fragrant ;  the  spiders  hung  in  sleep  from  the  tiles  ; 
the  gnats  hummed ;  everything  seemed  happy ;  that 
emboldened   me;  I    wanted  to  go  and  touch   the 
white  patch  where  those  little  diamonds  were  whir- 
ling and  which  rejoined  the  roof  by  a  column  of 
gold.     I   rolled   over  like   a  ball ;  my  eyes   were 
burned,  my  sides  bruised;   I  was  choking,  and   I 
coughed  till  nightfall. 


II. 

When  my  paws  had  become  firm,  I  went  out  and 
soon  made  friends  with  a  goose,  an  estimable  crea- 
ture,  for  she  had  a  warm  belly ;  I  cowered  under- 
neath, and  during  this  time  her  philosophic  conver- 
sation was  forming  me.  She  used  to  say  that  the 
poultry  yard  was  a  republic  of  allies  ;  that  the  most 
industrious,  man,  had  been  chosen  for  chief,  and 
that  the  dogs,  although  turbulent,  were  our  guar- 
dians.     I  shed  tears   of  emotion  under  my  kind 

friend's  belly. 

One  morning  the  cook  appear-ed  looking  as  if 
butter  would  not  melt  in  her  mouth,  and  showing 


3o6 


BAGnArES  and  LUCHON,         Book  IV. 


a  handful  of  barley.     The  goose  stretched  forth  her 
neck,  which  the  cook  grasped,  drawing  a  big  knife. 
My  uncle,  an  active  philosopher,  ran  up  and  began 
to  exhort  the  goose,  which  was  uttering  indecorous 
cries:  -  Dear  sister,"  said  he,  ''the  farmer,  when  he 
shall  have  eaten  your  flesh,  will  have  a  clearer  intel- 
ligence, and  will  watch  better  over  your  welfare ; 
and  the  dogs,  nourished  with  your  bones,  will  be 
the  more  capable  of  defending  you."     Thereupon 
the  goose   became   silent,  for   her   head    was   cut 
ofiF,  and  a  sort  of  red  pipe  stuck  out  beyond  the 
bleeding  neck.     My  uncle  ran  for  the  head  and  car- 
ried it  nimbly  away ;  as  for  me,  a  little  frightened,  I 
drew  near  to  the  pool  of  blood,  and,  without  think- 
ing, I  dipped  my  tongue  into  it ;  the  blood  was  very 
good,  and  I  went  to  the  kitchen  to  see  if  I  could 
not  have  some  more  of  it. 


III. 

My  uncle,  a  very  old  and  experienced  animal, 
taught  me  universal  history. 

At  the  beginning  of  things,  when  he  was  born, 
•the  master  being  dead,  the  children  at  the  funeral 
and  the  servants  at  a  dance,  all  the  animals  found 
themselves  free.  It  was  a  frightful  hubbub;  a  tur- 
key, whose  feathers  were  too  fine,  was  stripped  by 
his  comrades.     In  the  evening,  a  ferret,  which  had 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


307 


slipped  in,  sucked  the  jugular  vein  of  three-quar- 
ters of  the  combatants,  who,  naturally,  made  no 
further  outcry.  The  spectacle  in  the  farmyard  was 
fine ;  here  and  there  was  a  dog  swallowing  a  duck ; 
the  horses  In  pure  sportiveness  were  breaking  the 
backs  of  the  dogs ;  my  uncle  himself  crunched  a 
half-dozen  little  chickens.     That  was   the  golden 

age,  said  he. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  people  came  home, 
the  whipping  began.  Uncle  received  a  lash  which 
took  off  a  strip  of  his  fur.  The  dogs,  well  flogged 
and  tied  up,  howled  with  repentance  and  licked  the 
hands  of  their  new  master.  The  horses  resumed 
their  burden  with  administrative  zeal.  The  fowls, 
protected,  clucked  their  benedictions;  only,  six 
months  after,  when  the  dealer  passed,  they  killed 
fifty  at  once.  The  geese,  among  whose  number 
was  my  late  kind  friend,  flapped  their  wings,  saying 
that  everything  was  in  good  order,  and  praising 
the  farmer,  the  public  benefactor. 


IV. 

My  uncle,  although  surly,  acknowledges  that 
things  are  better  than  they  used  to  be.  He  says 
that  at  first  our  race  was  savage,  and  that  there 
are  still  in  the  woods  cats  who  are  like  our  first 
ancestors,  which,  at  long  intervals,  catch  a  mole  of 


3o8 


BAGNJ^RES  AND  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


dormouse,  but  oftener  the  contents  of  a  shot-gun. 
Others,  lean,  short-haired,  run  over  the  roofs  and 
think  that  mice  are  very  rare.  As  for  us,  brought 
up  on  the  summit  of  earthly  felicity,  we  whisk  a 
flattering  tail  in  the  kitchen,  we  utter  tender  litde 
mewings,  we  lick  the  empty  plates,  and  at  the 
utmost  we  put  up  with  a  dozen  cuffs  in  the  course 
of  the  day. 

V. 

Music  is  a  heavenly  art,  and  it  is  certain  that 
our  race  has  the  privilege  of  it ;  it  springs  from  the 
depths  of  our  entrails ;  men  know  this  so  well  that 
they  borrow  them  from  us  when  they  want  to  imi- 
tate us  with  their  violins. 

Two  things  inspire  in  us  these  heavenly  songs : 
the  view  of  the  stars  and  love.  Men,  clumsy  copy- 
ists, cram  themselves  ridiculously  into  a  low  hall, 
and  skip  about  thinking  to  equal  us.  It  is  on  the 
summit  of  the  roofs,  in  the  splendor  of  the  night, 
when  all  the  skin  shivers,  that  the  divine  melody  can 
find  vent.  Out  of  jealousy  they  curse  us  and 
fling  stones  at  us.  Let  them  burst  with  rage.  Never 
will  their  expressionless  voice  attain  to  those  serious 
rumblings,  those  piercing  notes,  mad  arabesques, 
inspired  and  unexpected  fancies,  which  soften  the 
soul  of  the  most  stubborn  she,  and  give  her 
over  to   us,  all   trembling,  while    up    above    the 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


309 


voluptuous  stars  twinkle  and  the  moon  grows  pale  ' 
with  love. 

How  happy  is  youth,  and  how  hard  it  is  to  lose 
Its  holy  illusions  !  And  I  too,  I  have  loved  and  have 
'haunted  the  roofs,  modulating  the  while  the  roll  of 
my  bass.  One  of  my  cousins  was  touched  thereby, 
and  two  months  after  brought  into  the  world  six 
pink  and  white  kittens.  I  ran  to  them  and  wanted 
to  eat  them ;  I  certainly  had  a  right,  since  I  was 
their  father.  Who  would  believe  it !  My  cousin, 
my  spouse,  to  whom  I  was  willing  to  give  her  share 
of  the  banquet,  flew  at  my  eyes.  This  brutality 
roused  my  indignation,  and  I  strangled  her  on  the 
spot ;  after  which  I  swallowed  the  entire  litter. 

But  the  hapless  little  rogues  were  good  for  no- 
thing, not  even  to  nourish  their  father :  their  flabby 
flesh  weighed  on  my  stomach  for  three  days.  Dis- 
gusted with  the  strong  passions,  I  gave  up  music, 
and  returned  to  the  kitchen. 


VI. 


I  HAVE  thought  much  on  the  ideal  happiness,  and 
I  think  I  have  made  thereupon  some  notable  dis- 
coveries. 

It  evidently  consists,  in  warm  weather,  in  sleeping 
near  the  barnyard  pool.  A  delicious  odor  arises 
from  the  fermenting  dung ;  lustrous  straws  shine  in 


3IO 


BAGNilRES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  TV. 


the  sunlight.  The  turkeys  ogle  lovingly,  and  let 
their  crest  of  red  flesh  fall  on  their  beak.  The  fowls 
scratch  up  the  straw,  and  bury  their  broad  bellies 
to  take  in  the  rising  heat.  The  pool  gleams, 
swarming  with  moving  insects  which  make  the 
bubbles  rise  to  its  surface.  The  harsh  whiteness 
of  the  walls  renders  yet  deeper  the  bluish  recesses 
where  the  gnats  hum.  With  eyes  half  closed  you 
dream ;  and,  as  you  have  almost  ceased  to  think,  you 
no  longer  wish  for  anything. 

In  winter,  happiness  is  in  sitting  at  the  fireside  in 
the  kitchen.     The  little  tongues  of  flame  lick  the 
log  and  shoot  amidst  the  sparks ;  the  twigs  snap 
and  writhe,  while  the  twisted  smoke  rises  in  the 
dark  chimney  to   the   very   sky.     Meanwhile   the 
spit  turns  with  a  harmonious  and  pleasing  ticktack. 
The   fowl  that   is  impaled   reddens,  turns   brown, 
becomes  splendid  ;  the  fat  which  moistens  it  softens 
its  hues ;  a  delightful  odor  irritates  the  olfactories  ; 
your  tongue  involuntarily  caresses  your  lips ;  you 
take  in  the  divine  emanations  of  the  fat ;  with  eyes 
lifted  to  heaven  in  a  serious  transport,  you  wait  till 
the  cook  takes  off  the  creature  and  offers  you  the 
part  that  belongs  to  you. 

He  who  eats  is  happy,  he  who  digests  is  happier, 
he  who  sleeps  while  digesting  is  happier  still.  All 
the  rest  is  only  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  The 
fortunate  mortal  is  he  who,  warmly  rolled  into  a  ball 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


3" 


with  his  belly  full,  feels  his  stomach  in  operation 
and  his  skin  expand.  A  delightful  tickling  pene- 
trates and  softly  stirs  the  fibres.  The  outer  and 
the  inner  creature  enjoy  with  their  every  nerve. 
Surely  if  the  universe  is  a  great  and  blessed  God, 
as  our  sages  say,  the  earth  must  be  an  immense 
belly  busy  through  all  eternity  digesting  the  crea- 
tures, and  warming  its  round  skin  in  the  sun. 


VII. 

My  mind  has  been  greatly  enlarged  by  reflection. 
By  a  sure  method,  sound  conjectures  and  sustained 
attention,  I  have  penetrated  some  of  the  secrets  of 

nature. 

The  dog  is  an  animal  so  deformed,  of  such  an 
unruly  character,  that  from  the  earliest  times  it  has 
been  considered  to  be  a  monster,  born  and  moulded 
in  despite  of  all  laws.  Indeed,  when  rest  is  the 
natural  state,  how  explain  an  animal  that  is  forever 
in  motion  and  busy,  and  that  without  aim  nor  need, 
even  when  he  is  gorged  and  not  afraid?  When 
beauty  universally  consists  in  suppleness,  grace 
and  prudence,  how  allow  an  animal  to  be  forever 
brutal,  howling,  mad,  jumping  at  the  nose  of  people, 
running  after  kicks  and  rebuffs  ?  When  the  favorite 
and  masterpiece  of  creation  is  the  cat,  how  under- 
stand an  animal  that  hates  it,  runs  at  it,  without 


312 


BAGNkRES  AND  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


having  received  a  single  scratch  from  it,  and  breaks 
its  ribs  without  any  desire  to  eat  its  flesh  ? 

These  contradictions  prove  that  dogs  are  con- 
demned beings ;  without  a  doubt  the  souls  of  the 
guilty  and  punished  pass  into  their  bodies.  They 
suffer  there ;  that  is  why  they  worry  one  another, 
and  fret  unceasingly.  They  have  lost  their  reason, 
so  they  spoil  everything,  incite  to  battle,  and  are 
chained  three-quarters  of  the  day.  They  hate  the 
beautiful  and  the  good,  consequently  they  try  to 
throttle  us. 


VIII. 

Little  by  little  the  mind  frees  itself  from  the 
prejudices  in  which  it  was  reared;  light  dawns;  it 
thinks  for  itself;  thus  it  is  that  I  have  attained  to 
the  true  explanation  of  things. 

Our  first  ancestors  (and  the  gutter  cats  have  re- 
tained this  belief)  said  that  heaven  is  a  very  lofty 
granary,  well  covered,  where  the  sun  never  hurts 
the  eyes.  In  this  granary,  my  great-aunt  used  to 
say,  there  are  troops  of  rats  so  fat  that  they  can 
hardly  walk,  and  the  more  we  eat  of  them,  the 
more  there  are  to  eat. 

But  it  is  evident  that  this  is  the  opinion  of  poor 
devils,  who,  since  they  have  never  eaten  anything 
but  rat,  cannot  imagine   a  better  diet.     Besides, 


Chap.  III. 


THE  PEOPLE. 


zn 


granaries  are  wood-color  or  gray,  and  the  sky  is 
blue,  which  finishes  their  confusion. 

In  truth,  they  rest  their  opinion  upon  a  sufficiently 
shrew^d  remark :  ''  It  is  evident,"  they  say,  **  that  the 
sky  is  a  granary  of  straw  or  flour,  for  there  come 
out  of  it  very  often  clouds  light,  as  when  the  wheat 
is  winnowed,  or  white,  as  when  bread  is  sprinkled 
in  the  kneading-trough.*' 

But  I  reply  to  them  that  the  clouds  are  not 
formed  by  the  chaff  of  grain  or  the  dust  of  flour ; 
for  when  they  fall,  it  is  water  that  we  receive. 

Others,  more  refined,  have  maintained  that  the 
Dutch  oven  was  God,  saying  that  it  is  the  fount  of 
every  blessing,  turns  unceasingly,  goes  to  the  fire 
v/ithout  being  burned,  and  that  the  sight  of  it  is 
enough  to  throw  one  into  ecstasy. 

In  my  opinion  they  have  erred  here  only  because 
they  saw  it  through  the  window,  from  a  distance, 
in  a  poetic,  colored,  sparkling  smoke,  beautiful  as 
the  sun  at  evening.  But  I,  who  have  sat  near  it 
durinof  whole  hours,  I  know  that  it  has  to  be 
sponged,  mended,  wiped ;  and  in  acquiring  knowl- 
edge, I  have  lost  the  innocent  illusions  of  heart  and 
stomach. 

The  mind  must  be  opened  to  conceptions  more 

vast,  and  reason  by  more  certain  methods.     Nature 

IS  everywhere  uniform  with  herself,  and   in  small 

things  offers  the  image  of  the  great.     From  what 
14 


3U 


BAGN&RES  AND  LUCHON        Book  IV. 


do  all  animals  spring  ?  from  an  egg ;  the  earth  then 
is  a  very  great  ^^g ;  I  even  add  that  it  is  a  broken 

You  will  convince  yourself  of  this  if  you  examine 
the  form  and  the  limits  of  this  valley,  which  is  the 
visible  world.  It  is  concave  like  an  ^g'gy  and  the 
sharp  edges  by  which  it  rejoins  the  sky  are  jagged, 
are  keen-edged  and  white  like  those  of  a  broken 
shell. 

The  white  and  the  yolk,  pressed  into  lumps,  have 
formed  these  blocks  of  stone,  these  houses  and  the 
whole  solid  earth.  Some  parts  have  remained  soft 
and  form  the  surface  that  men  plough ;  the  rest 
runs  in  water  and  makes  the  pools,  the  rivers ;  each 
spring-time  there  runs  a  little  that  is  new. 

As  to  the  sun,  nobody  can  doubt  its  use ;  it  is  a 
great  red  firebrand  that  is  moved  back  and  forth 
above  the  ^gg  to  cook  it  gently ;  the  ^gg  has  been 
broken  on  purpose,  in  order  that  it  may  be  the 
better  impregnated  with  the  heat ;  the  cook  always 
does  so.     The  world  is  a  great  beaten  ^gg* 

Now  that  I  have  reached  this  stage  of  wisdom,  I 
have  nothing  more  to  ask  of  nature,  nor  of  men, 
nor  of  any  one ;  except,  perhaps,  some  little  tidbits 
from  the  roaster.  In  future  I  have  only  to  cradle 
myself  to  rest  in  my  wisdom  ;  for  my  perfection  is 
sublime,  and  no  thinking  cat  has  penetrated  into 
the  secret  of  the  world  so  far  as  I. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


THE  ROAD  TO  BAGNERES  DE  LUCIION. 


I. 


Every  man  who  has  the  use  of  his  eyes  and 
ears  ought,  in  travelling,  to  climb  up  to  the  im- 
perial. The  highest  places  are  the  most  beauti- 
ful ;  ask  those  who  occupy  them.  You  break 
your  neck  if  you  fall  from  them ;  consult  the  same 
people  about  this.  But  you  enjoy  yourself  while 
you  are  there. 

In  the  first  place,  you  see  the  landscape,  which 
produces  descriptions  that  you  offer  to  the  pub- 
lic. In  the  coupe,  your  only  spectacle  is  the  har- 
ness of  the  horses ;  in  the  interior,  you  see  through 
a  tiny  window  the  trees  trooping  by  like  soldiers 
carrying  arms  ;  in  the  rotunda,  you  are  in  a  cloud 
of  dust  that  dims  the  landscape  and  strangles  the 
traveller. 

In  the  second  place,  at  the  top  you  will  have 
comedy.  In  the  lower  places,  the  people  preserve 
decorum  and  are  silent.  The  peasants  here  perch- 
ed aloft,  who  are  3^our  companions,  the  postilion 
and  the  conductor,  make  open-hearted  confidences : 


Ji6 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


they  talk  of  their  wives,  their  children,  their  prop- 
erty, trade,  neighbors,  and  above  all  of  themselves ; 
so  that  at  the  end  of  an  hour  you  imagine  theif 
housekeeping  and  their  life  as  clearly  as  if  you  were 
at  home  with  them.  It  is  a  novel  of  manners  that 
you  skim  through  on  the  road.  Not  one  of  them 
gives  ideas  so  vivid  and  so  truthful.  You  get  to 
know  the  people  only  by  living  with  them,  and  the 
people  from  three-quarters  of  the  nation.  These 
bits  of  conversation  teach  you  the  number  of  their 
ideas  and  the  hue  of  their  passions ;  now,  on  these 
ideas  and  passions  depend  all  the  great  events. 
Besides  their  rude  manners,  their  loud  bursts  of 
laughter,  their  frank  respect  for  bodily  strength, 
their  acknowledged  inclination  for  the  pleasure  of 
eating  and  drinking,  offer  a  contrast  to  the  humbug 
of  our  politeness  and  our  affectation  of  refinement. 
The  conductor  told  the  postilion  how  the  evening 
before  they  had  eaten  the  half  of  a  sheep  among 
three  of  them.  It  was  good,  fat  mutton ;  they 
served  up  no  better  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Great  Sun  : 
there  were  sirloins,  cutlets,  a  neat  leg  of  mutton. 
They  had  emptied  six  bottles.  The  other  made 
him  tell  it  over,  and  seemed  to  eat  in  imagination, 
by  the  reaction,  by  recoil,  as  it  were.  After  the 
banquet,  he  had  made  the  horses  gallop ;  he  had 
passed  by  Ribettes.  Ribettes  had  swallowed  dust 
for  a  whole  hour;  Ribettes  wanted  to  get  ahead 


Chap.  IV.      TO  BAGN^RES-DE-LUCHON. 


317 


again,  but  wasn't  able.  Ribettes  grew  very  angry. 
They  had  dared  Ribettes.  The  story  of  Ribettes 
and  the  mutton  was  told  eight  times  in  an  hour,  and 
seemed  the  last  time  as  delightful  and  as  new  as 
the  first     They  laughed  like  the  blest. 

In  the  third  place,  that  is  the  only  spot  where 
you  can  breathe.  The  other  divisions  are  sweat- 
ing-rooms whose  partitions  and  black  cushions  hold 
and  concentrate  the  heat.  Now,  there  is  no  man, 
no  matter  how  he  may  love  colors  and  lines,  who 
can  enjoy  a  landscape  shut  up  in  a  box  without  air. 
When  the  creature  is  cramped,  it  cramps  the  soul. 
Admiration  has  need  of  comfort,  and  when  you  are 
broiled  by  the  sun  you  curse  the  sun. 


XL 

The  coach  starts  very  early  in  the  morning  and 
climbs  a  long  ascent  under  the  gray  bright- 
ness of  the  dawn.  The  peasants  come  in  troops  ; 
the  women  have  five  or  six  bottles  of  milk  on  the 
head,  in  a  basket  Oxen,  with  lowered  brows, 
drag  carts  as  primitive  and  Gallic  as  at  Pau.  The 
children,  in  brown  berets,  run  in  the  dust,  along- 
side their  mothers.  The  village  is  coming  to 
nourish  the  city. 

Escaladieu  shows  at  the  wayside  the  remains  of 
an  ancient  abbey.     The  chapel  is  still  standing  and 


3i3 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 


preserves  fragments  of  gothic  sculpture.  A  bridge 
is  at  the  side,  shaded  by  tall  trees.  The  pretty 
river  Arros  runs,  with  moire  reflexes  and  guipures 
of  silver,  over  a  bed  of  dark  pebbles.  No  one 
could  choose  a  situation  better  than  the  monks : 
they  were  the  artists  of  the  time. 

Mauvoisin,  an  ancient  stronghold  of  robber- 
knights,  lifts  its  ruined  tower  above  the  valley. 
Froissart  relates  how  they  besieged  these  honest 
folk ;  of  a  truth,  in  those  times,  they  were  as  good 
as  their  neighbors,  and  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  their 
enemy,  had  done  more  harm  than  they. 

"A  Gascon  squire,  an  able  man-at-arms,  named 
Raymonet  de  I'Epee,  was  at  that  time  Gover- 
nor of  Malvoisin.  There  were  daily  skirmishes 
at  the  barriers,  where  many  gallant  feats  were 
done  by  those  who  wished  to  advance  them- 
selves  

"The  castle  of  Malvoisin  held  out  about  six 
weeks,  there  were  daily  skirmishes  between  the 
two  armies  at  the  barriers,  and  the  place  would 
have  made  a  longer  resistance,  for  the  castle  was 
so  strong  it  could  have  held  a  long  siege  ;  but  the 
well  that  supplied  the  castle  with  water  being  with- 
out the  walls,  they  cut  off  the  communication: 
the  weather  was  very  hot,  and  the  cisterns  within 
quite  dry,  for  it  had  not  rained  one  drop  for  six 
weeks,  and  the  besiegers  were  at  their  ease,  on  the 


Chap.  IV.      TO  BAGNMES-DE-LUCHON, 


3^9 


banks  of  this  clear  and  fine  river,  which  they  made 
use  of  for  themselves  and  horses. 

**  The  garrison  of  Malvoisin  were  alarmed  at  their 
situation,  for  they  could  not  hold  out  longer.  They 
had  a  sufficiency  of  wine,  but  not  one  drop  of  swee^^ 
water.  They  determined  to  open  a  treaty;  and 
Raymonet  de  TEpee  requested  a  passport  to  wait 
on  the  duke,  which,  having  easily  obtained,  he 
said :  '  My  lord,  if  you  will  act  courteously  to  me 
and  my  companions,  I  will  surrender  the  castle  of 
Malvoisin.'  *  What  courtesy  is  it  you  ask  ? '  re- 
plied the  Duke  of  Anjou  :  '  get  about  your  business 
each  of  you  to  your  own  countries,  without  enter- 
ing any  fort  that  holds  out  against  us ;  for  if  you 
do  so,  and  I  get  hold  of  you,  I  will  deliver  you  up 
to  Jocelin,  who  will  shave  you  without  a  razor.' 
*  My  lord,*  answered  Raymonet,  *  if  we  thus  de- 
part we  must  carry  away  what  belongs  to  us,  and 
what  we  have  gained  by  arms  and  with  great  risk.' 
The  duke  paused  awhile,  and  then  said,  '  I  consent 
that  you  take  with  you  whatever  you  can  carry  be- 
fore you  in  trunks  and  on  sumpter  horses,  but  not 
otherwise  ;  and  if  you  have  any  prisoners,  they  must 
be  given  up  to  us.'  '  I  agree,'  said  Raymonet. 
Such  was  the  treaty,  as  you  hear  me  relate  it;  and 
all  who  were  in  the  castle  departed,  after  surren- 
dering it  to  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  and  carrying 
all  they  could    with    them.      They    returned   to 


320 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON        Book  IV 


their  own  country,  or  elsewhere,  in  search  of  ad- 
ventures." 

These  good  folk  who  wished  to  keep  the  fruits 
of  their  labor,  had  spent  their  time  "in  fleecing 
the  merchants  "  of  Catalonia,  as  well  as  of  France, 
**  and  in  making  war  on  and  harrying  them  of  Bag- 
neres  and  Bigorre."  Bagneres  was  then  **  a  good, 
big,  closed  city."  People  fortified  everywhere, 
because  there  was  fighting  everywhere.  They 
went  out  only  with  a  safe-conduct  and  an  escort : 
instead  of  gendarmes  they  met  plunderers  ;  instead 
of  umbrellas  they  carried  off  lances.  A  secure 
house  was  a  fine  house ;  when  a  man  had  immured 
himself  in  a  thick  tower  built  like  a  well,  he 
breathed  freely,  he  felt  at  his  ease.  Those  w^ere 
the  good  times,  as  every  one  knows. 


III. 

Encausse  is  very  near  here,  at  the  turn  of  the 
road.  Chapelle  and  Bachaumont  came  there  to  re- 
store their  stomachs,  which  needed  and  deserved  it 
well,  for  they  used  them  more  than  some  do.  They 
wrote  their  travels,  and  their  style  flows  as  easily 
as  their  life.  They  go  by  short  stages,  drink,  chat, 
feast  among  the  friends  they  have  everywhere, 
court  the  ladies,  make  game  very  pleasantly  of  the 
provincial   folk.      They   drink   the   health   of  the 


Chap.  IV.      TO  BAGNMRES-DE-LUCHON. 


321 


absent,  enjoy  the  muscatel  as  much  as  possible 
and  trifle  in  prose  and  verse.  They  are  the  epicu- 
reans of  their  time,  easy  poets  who  are  troubled 
about  nothing,  not  even  about  glory ;  graze  all  that 
they  touch,  and  write  only  for  their  own  amusement. 
"Encausse,"  say  they,  '*  is  far  from  all  commerce, 
and  a  man  can  have  no  other  diversion  in  it  than 
that  of  seeing  the  return  of  his  health.  A  small 
stream  that,  a  score  of  paces  away  from  the  village, 
winds  among  willows  and  the  greenest  fields  imag- 
inable, was  our  only  consolation.  We  used  to  go 
every  morning  to  take  our  water  in  this  pretty  spot, 
and  after  dinner  to  walk  there.  One  day  when  we 
were  on  the  brink,  seated  on  the  grass,  there  came 
suddenly  from  the  midst  of  the  reeds  that  were 
nearest  a  man  who  had  apparently  been  listening  to 
us ;  it  was 

"An  old  man,  all  white,  pale  and  lean,  whose 
beard  and  locks  hung  below  his  girdle,  such  (an 
one)  as  Melchisedec  is  painted ;  or  rather  the 
figure  is  that  of  a  certain  old  Greek  bishop,  who, 
v/ith  many  a  salaam,  tells  everybody's  fortune ;  for 
he  wore  a  top-piece  like  a  cauldron-lid,  but  of 
exceeding  size,  which  answered  him  for  a  hat. 
And  this  hat,  whose  broad  brim  went  drooping 
upon  his  shoulders,  was  made  of  branches  of  wil- 
low, and  covered  nearly  all  his  body.     His  coat  of 

greenish   hue  was   woven  of    rushes,   the  whole 
14* 


322 


J5A  GIVARES  and  L  UCHOlSr.        Book  IV. 


covered  with  great  bits  of  a  thick  and  bluish  crys- 
tal.* 

'*  At  sight  of  this  apparition,  fear  caused  us  to 
make  the  sign  of  the  cross  twice  over,  and  go  three 
paces  backward.  But  curiosity  prevailed  over  fear, 
and  we  resolved,  although  with  some  little  palpita- 
tion of  heart,  to  await  the  extraordinary  old  man, 
whose  approach  was  thoroughly  courteous,  and 
who  spoke  to  us  very  civilly  as  follows : 

*'  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  surprised  that  with  my 
unexpected  appearance  you  should  be  a  little  star- 
tled in  mind,  but  when  you  shall  have  learned  in 

*  Un  vieillard  tout  blanc,  pdle  et  sec, 
Dont  la  barbe  et  la  chevelure 
Pendaient  plus  bas  que  la  ceinture, 
Ainsi  qu'on  peint  Melcliisedech  ; 
Ou  plutot  telle  est  la  figure 
D'un  certain  vicux  eveque  grec 
Qui,  faisant  la  salamalec, 
Dit  ^  tous  la  bonne  aventure  ; 
Car  il  portait  un  chapiteau 
Comme  un  couvercle  de  lessive, 
Mais  d'une  grandeur  excessive, 
Qui  lui  tenait  lieu  de  chapeau. 
Et  ce  chapeau,  dont  les  grands  bords 
AUaient  tombants  sur  scs  epaules, 
Etait  fait  de  branches  de  saules, 
Et  couvrait  presque  tout  son  corps. 
Son  habit  de  couleur  verdatre 
£tait  d'un  tissu  de  roseaux, 
Le  tout  couvert  de  gros  morceaux 
D'un  cristal  epais  et  bleuatre. 


\ 


Chap.  IV.      TO  BAGNERESDE-LUCHON. 


Z'^Z 


what  rank  the  fates  have  set  my  birth  to  you 
unknown,  and  the  motive  of  my  coming,  you  will 
calm  your  minds.  I  am  the  god  of  this  stream, 
'  who,  with  an  ever  inexhaustible  urn,  tilted  at  the 
foot  of  that  hill,  take  the  task  in  this  meadow  of 
pouring  unceasingly  the  water,  which  makes  it  so 
green  and  flowery.  For  eight  days  now,  morning 
and  evening,  you  come  regularly  to  see  me  with- 
out thinking  to  pay  me  a  visit.  It  is  not  that  I 
do  not  deserve  that  you  should  pay  me  this 
respect ;  for,  in  short,  I  have  this  advantage,  that 
a  channel  so  pure  and  clear  is  the  place  of  my 
appanage.  In  Gascony  such  a  portion  is  very  neat 
for  a  cadet."  * 


*  **  Messieurs,  je  ne  suis  pas  surpris 
Que  de  ma  rencontre  imprevue 
Vous  ayez  un  peu  1'  ame  emue ; 
Mais  lorsque  vous  aurez  appris 
En  quel  rang  les  destins  ont  mis 
Ma  naissance  \  vous  inconnue, 
Et  le  sujet  de  ma  venue, 
Vous  rassurerez  vos  esprits. 
Je  suis  le  dieu  de  ce  ruisseau. 
Qui  d'une  urne  jamais  tarie, 
Penchee  au  pied  de  ce  coteau, 
Prends  le  soin  dans  cette  prairie 
De  verser  incessamment  I'eau 
Qui  la  rend  si  verte  et  fleurie. 
Depuis  huit  jours,  matin  et  soir, 
Vous  me  venez  reglement  voir. 
Sans  croire  me  rendre  visite. 
Ce  u'est  pas  que  je  ne  merite 


324 


BAGNkRES  AND  LUCHON        Book  IV. 


The  two  travellers  were  talking  of  the  tides  of 
the  Garonne,  and  of  the  reasons  for  them  given  by 
Gassendi  and  Descartes.  This  very  obliging  god 
relates  to  them  how  Neptune  thereby  punishes  an 
ancient  rebellion  of  the  rivers.  *'  Then  the  honest 
river-god  takes  himself  off,  and  when  he  has  gone 
a  score  of  paces  the  good  soul  is  melted  entirely 
into  water." 

Nowadays  this  mythology  seems  unmeaning, 
and  the  thought  flat.  Look  at  the  environs,  the 
surroundings  save  it.  Carelessness,  intoxication, 
are  on  one  side.  It  is  born  between  two  glasses 
of  good  wine  thoroughly  relished,  in  the  midst  of 
an  unpremeditated  letter.  Are  people  so  very  nice 
at  table  ?  It  is  a  refrain  they  are  humming ;  flat  or 
not,  is  of  no  consequence.  The  main  thing  is  good 
humor  and  the  inclination  to  laugh.  I  picture  to 
myself  the  honest  fellows,  well-dressed,  portly,  their 
eyes  still  shining  from  the  long  dinner  of  yesterday, 
with  rubies  on  their  cheeks,  perfectly  ready  to  sit 
down  to  dine  at  the  first  inn  and  to  bedevil  the 
maid.  La  Fontaine  did  so,  especially  when  he 
travelled.     They  made    stops,   forgot  themselves. 


Que  I'on  me  rende  ce  devoir ; 
Car  enfin  j'ai  cet  avantage, 
Qu'un  canal  si  clair  et  si  net 
Est  le  lieu  de  mon  apanage. 
Dans  la  Gascogne,  un  tel  partage 
Est  bien  joli  pour  un  cadet." 


Chap.  IV.      TO  BAGNARES-DE-LUCHON, 


32s 


the  broad  jokes  flew.  They  didn't  cross  France  as 
nowadays,  after  the  fashion  of  a  cannon-ball  of 
an  attorney ;  they  allowed  five  days  for  going  to 
Poitiers,  and  in  the  evening,  on  going  to  bed,  they 
fed  the  body.  It  was  the  last  age  of  the  good  cor- 
poreal life,  that  heavy  boicrgeoisie  which  had  its 
flower  and  its  portrait  in  Flemish  art.  It  was 
already  disappearing;  aristocratic  propriety  and 
lordly  salutes  were  taking  possession  of  literature  ; 
Boileau  gave  us  serious  verse,  thoroughly  useful 
and  solid,  like  pairs  of  tongs.  Nowadays  when 
the  middle-class  man  is  a  philosopher,  ambitious,  a 
man  of  business,  it  is  far  worse.  Let  us  not  speak 
ill  of  those  who  are  happy;  happiness  is  a  sort  of 
poetry ;  it  is  in  vain  that  we  boast  ourselves,  that 
poetry  we  have  not. 


IV. 

The  road  is  bordered  with  vines,  each  of  which 
carries  up  its  tree,  elm  or  ash,  the  crown  of  a  fresh 
verdure,  and  lets  its  leaves  and  tendrils  fall  again 
in  plumes.  The  valley  is  a  garden  long  and  nar- 
row, between  two  chains  of  mountains.  On  the 
lower  slopes  are  beautiful  meadows  where  the  liv- 
ing waters  run  in  orderly  fashion  in  trenches,  nim- 
ble, prattling  irrigators ;  the  villages  are  seated 
along  the  little  river ;  vine-stocks  climb  along  the 


S.6 


BAGNMES  and  LUCHON,        Book  IV 


dusty  wall.     The  mallows,  straight  as  tapers,  lift 
above  the  hedges  their  round  flowers,  brilliant  as 
roses  of  rubies.     Orchards  of  apples  pass  continu- 
ally on  both  sides  of  the  coach  ;  cascades  fall  in 
every  hollow  of  the  chain,  surrounded  with  houses 
that  seek  a  shelter.     The  heat  and  the  dust  are  so 
terrible  that  they  are  obliged  every  time  we  pass 
a  spring  to  sponge  the  nostrils  of  the  horses.     But 
at  the  end  of  the  valley  a  mass   of  dark,  rugged 
mountains  lifts  itself,  with  tops  that  are  wdiite  v/ith 
snow,  feeding  the  river  and  closing  the  horizon. 
Finally,   we  pass  beneath  an  alley  of  fine  plane- 
trees,  between  two  rows  of  villas,  gardens,  hotels, 
and  shops.     It  is  Luchon,  a  litde  city  as  Parisian 
as  Bigorre. 


CHAPTER  V. 


LUCHON. 


I. 


The  street  is  a  broad  alley,  planted  with  large 
trees,  and  lined  with  rather  handsome  hotels.  It 
was  opened  by  the  intendant  d'Etigny,  who,  for 
this  misdeed,  was  near  being  stoned.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  call  in  a  company  of  dragoons  to  force  the 
Luchonnais  to  endure  the  prosperity  of  their  coun- 
try. 

At  the  end  of  the  alley  a  pretty  chalet,  like  those 
in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  shelters  the  du  Pre 
spring.  Its  walls  are  a  fantastic  trellis  of  gnarled 
branches,  adorned  with  their  bark;  its  roof  is 
thatched;  its  ceiling  is  a  tapestry  of  moss.  A 
young  girl  sitting  at  the  taps  distributes  to  the 
bathers  glasses  of  sulphurous  water.  The  elegant 
toilettes  come  about  four  o'clock.  Meanwhile  you 
sit  in  the  shade  on  benches  of  woven  wood,  and 
w^atcli  the  children  playing  on  the  turf,  the  rows  of 
trees  descending  toward  the  river,  and  the  broad 
green  plain,  sprinkled  with  villages. 

Below  the  spring  are  the  bathing-houses,  nearly 


328 


BAGNMrES  and  LUCHON        Book  IV. 


finished,  and  which  will  be  the  finest  in  the  Pyre 
nees.     At   present  the   neighboring  field    is   still 
strewn  with  materials ;  the  lime  smokes  all  day,  and 
makes  the  air  to  flame  and  quiver. 

The  court  of  the  baths  contains  a  large  votive 
altar,  bearing  on  one  of  its  faces  an  amphora  and 
this  inscription : 

Nymphis, 

Aug. 
Sacrum. 

They  have  preserved  in  addition  these  other 
two: 

Nymphis  Lixoni  Deo 

T.  Claudius  Fabia  Festa 

Rufus  V.  S.  L.  M. 

V.  S.  L.  M. 

This  god  Lixo,  they  say,  was  in  the  time  of  the 
Celts  the  tutelary  deity  of  the  country.  Hence  the 
name  of  Luchon.  He  is  maimed  and  not  destroyed. 
The  gods  are  tenacious  of  life. 


II. 

In  the  evening  one  hears  far  too  many  pianos. 
There  are  several  balls,  and  orchestras  in  certain 
cafes.     These  orchestras  are  strolling  families,  hired 


Chap  V. 


LUCHON, 


329 


at  so  much  a  week,  to  make  the  house  uninhabita- 
ble. One  of  these,  composed  of  a  flute,  male,  and 
four  violins,  female,  used  fearlessly  to  play  the  same 
overture  every  evening.  The  privileged  beings 
who  had  paid  were  in  the  hall  among  the  music 
stands.  A  throng  of  peasants  always  crowded  at 
the  door,  with  open  mouths ;  they  formed  in  a  cir- 
cle and  mounted  on  the  benches  to  see. 

The  tradespeople  of  every  sort  turn  their  shops 
into  a  lottery :  lottery  of  plate,  of  books,  of  little 
objects  of  ornament,  etc.     The  tradesman  and  his 
wife  distribute  cards,  price  one  sou,  to  the  servant- 
maids,   soldiers,   and   children,  who   compose   the 
crowd.     Somebody  draws  ;  the  gallery  and  those 
interested    stretch    their    necks    eagerly   forward. 
The  man  reads  the  number ;  a  cry  is  heard,  the 
unguarded  sign  of  an  overflowing  joy.      "  It's    I 
that  have  won,   I,  monsieur  the  merchant."     And 
you  see  a  little  serving-maid,  blushing  all  over,  lift 
herself  on  tiptoe  and  stretch  out  her  hands.     The 
merchant  dexterously  seizes  a  pot,  parades  it  above 
his  head,  and  makes   everybody  about  remark  it. 
"  A  fine  mustard-pot ;  a  mustard-pot  worth  three 
francs,   threaded   with   gold.      Who   wants    num- 
bers ?  "     The  assembly  lasts  four  hours.     It  begins 
anew  every  day ;  the  customers  are  not  wanting  for 
a  single  moment. 

These  people  have  a  genius  for  display.     One 


330 


BAGNkRES  AND  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


<( 


(< 


day  we  heard  the  roll  of  drums,  followed  by  four 
men  marching  solemnly,  swathed  in  shawls  and 
pieces  of  cloth.  The  children  and  the  dogs  follow 
the  procession  with  hubbub ;  it  is  the  opening  of  a 
new  shop.  The  next  day  I  copied  the  following 
handbill  printed  on  yellow  paper : 

Orpheonic  festival  in  the  grotto  of  Gargas. 
The  Orpheonic  Society  from  the  city  of  Mon- 
trejean  will  execute 

"  The  polka ; 

*'  Several  military  marches ; 

**  Several  waltzes ; 

*'  Divers  other  pieces  from  the  works  of  the 
great  masters. 

**  Among  other  amateurs  who  will  allow  them- 
selves to  be  heard,  one  will  sing  some  stanzas  on 
eternity. 

**  Finally,  an  exquisite  voice,  which  wishes  to  re- 
main anonymous  in  order  to  avoid  those  deserved 
praises  that  people  are  fond  of  lavishing  on  its  sex, 
will  sing  also  a  number  of  pieces  analogous  to  the 
circumstances. 

**  It  will  be  delicious  and  even  seraphic  to  lend 
an  ear  to  the  echo  of  the  sonorous  concretions  of 
the  stalactites,  which  will  unite  with  the  vibrating 
echo  of  the  vault  to  repeat  the  harmonious  notes ; 
and  when  the  divine  voice  shall  be  heard,  the  in- 
toxicating charm  of  the  spell  will  surpass   every 


Chap.  V. 


LUCHON, 


ZZ^ 


impression  which  can  have  been  left  in  the  soul  by 
the  most  delightful  of  musical  reunions. 

"  Price  of  admission :  i  franc." 

These  people  descend  from  Clemence  Isaure. 
Their  advertisements  are  odes.  By  way  of  com- 
pensation many  odes  are  advertisements. 

In  fact,  you  are  here  not  far  from  Toulouse ;  like 
the  character,  the  type  is  new.  The  young  girls 
have  fine,  regular,  clear-cut  faces,  of  a  lively  and 
gay  expression.  They  are  small,  with  a  light  step, 
brilliant  eyes,  the  nimbleness  of  a  bird.  In  the 
evening,  about  a  lottery-shop,  these  pretty  faces 
stand  out  animated  and  full  of  passion  beneath  the 
flickering  light,  fringed  with  a  black  shadow.  The 
eyes  sparkle,  the  red  lips  tremble,  the  neck  tosses 
with  the  little  abrupt  movements  of  the  swallow ; 
no  picture  can  be  more  full  of  life. 

If  you  leave  the  lighted  and  tumultuous  alley,  at 
the  distance  of  an  hundred  paces,  you  find  silence, 
solitude  and  obscurity.  At  night,  the  valley  is  of 
great  beauty ;  it  is  framed  and  drawn  out  between 
two  chains  of  parallel  mountains,  huge  pillars 
w^hich  stretch  in  two  files  and  support  the  dark 
vault  of  heaven. 

Their  arches  mark  it  out  like  a  cathedral  ceiling, 
and  the  immense  nave  vanishes  several  leagues 
away,  radiant  with  stars;  these  stars  fling  out 
flames.     At  this  moment,  they  are  the  only  living 


332 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 


things  ;  the  valley  is  black,  the  air  motionless  ;  you 
can  only  distinguish  the  tapering  tops  of  the  pop- 
lars, erect  in  the  tranquil  night,  wrapt  in  their 
mantle  of  leaves.  The  topmost  branches  stir,  and 
their  rustle  is  like  the  murmur  of  a  prayer  echoed 
by  the  distant  hum  of  the  torrent. 


III. 

By  daylight,  the  country  is  rich  and  smiling ;  the 
valley  is  not  a  gorge,  but  a  beautiful  level  meadow 
marked  with  trees  and  fields  of  maize,  among 
which  the  river  runs,  but  does  not  leap.  Luchon  is 
surrounded  with  alleys  of  plane-trees,  poplars  and 
lindens.  You  leave  these  alleys  for  a  pathway 
which  follows  the  waves  of  the  Pique  and  winds 
amidst  the  high  grass.  The  ashes  and  oaks  form  a 
screen  along  the  two  banks  ;  big  brooks  come  from 
the  mountains  ;  you  cross  them  on  trunks  laid  bridge- 
wise  or  on  broad  slabs  of  slate.  All  these  waters 
flow  in  the  shade,  between  knotted  roots  which 
they  bathe,  and  which  form  trellises  on  both  sides. 
The  bank  is  covered  with  hanging  herbage ;  you 
see  nothing  but  the  fresh  verdure  and  the  dark 
waters.  It  is  here  that  at  noon  the  pedestrians 
take  refuge ;  along  the  sides  of  the  valley  wind 
dusty  roads  where  stream  the  carriages  and  the 
horsemen.      Higher   up   the   mountains,  gray   or 


Chap.  V. 


LUC  HOIST. 


333 


browned  with  moss,  display  their  soft  lines  and 
noble  forms  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  They  are 
not  wild  as  at  Saint  Sauveur,  nor  bare  as  at  Eaux- 
Bonnes ;  each  of  these  chains  advances  nobly  to- 
ward the  city  and  behind  it  leaves  its  vast  ridge  to 
undulate  to  the  very  verge  of  the  horizon. 


IV. 

Above  Luchon  is  a  mountain  called  Super-Bag- 
neres.  At  the  outset  I  run  across  the  Fountain  of 
Love;  it  is  a  hut  of  planks  where  beer  is  sold. 

A  winding  staircase,  crossed  by  springs,  then 
steep  pathways  in  a  black  forest  of  firs  lead  you  in 
two  hours  to  the  pastures  on  the  summit.  The 
mountain  is  about  five  thousand  feet  high.  These 
pastures  are  great  undulating  hills,  ranged  in  rows, 
carpeted  with  short  turf  and  thickset,  fragrant 
thyme ;  here  and  there  in  crowds  are  broad  tufts 
of  a  sort  of  wild  iris,  the  flower  of  which  fades  in 
the  month  of  August.  You  reach  there  fatigued, 
and  on  the  grass  of  the  highest  point  you  may 
sleep  in  the  sunlight  with  the  utmost  pleasure  in 
life.  Clouds  of  winged  ants  eddied  in  the  warm 
rays.  In  a  hollow  beneath  us  we  heard  the  bleat- 
ing of  sheep  and  of  goats.  A  quarter  of  a  league 
off,  on  the  back  of  the  mountain,  a  pool  of  water 
was  glittering  like  burnished  steel.     Here,  as  on 


334 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  IV, 


Mount  Bergonz  and  the  Pic  du  Midi,  you  look  on 
an  amphitheatre  of  mountains.  These  have  not 
the  heroic  severity  of  the  primal  granite,  black 
rocks  clothed  with  luminous  air  and  white  snow. 
On  one  side  alone,  toward  the  Crabioules  moun- 
tains, the  naked  and  jagged  rocks  were  silvered 
with  a  girdle  of  glaciers.  Everywhere  else,  the 
slopes  were  without  escarpment,  the  forms  softened, 
the  angles  dulled  and  rounded.  But,  although  less 
wild,  the  amphitheatre  of  the  mountains  was  impos- 
ing. The  idea  of  the  simple  and  imperishable 
entered  with  an  entire  dominion  into  the  subdued 
mind.  Peaceful  sensations  cradled  the  soul  in  their 
mighty  undulations.  It  harmonized  itself  with  these 
huge  and  immovable  creatures.  It  was  like  a  con- 
cert of  three  or  four  notes  indefinitely  prolonged 
and  sung  by  deep  voices. 

The  day  was  declining,  clouds  dimmed  the  chilled 
sky.  The  woods,  the  fields,  the  mossy  moors,  the 
rocks  of  the  slopes,  took  various  hues  in  the  waning 
light.  But  this  opposition  of  hues,  obliterated  by 
distance  and  the  greatness  of  the  masses,  melted 
into  a  green  and  grayish  shade,  of  a  melancholy 
and  tender  effect,  like  that  of  a  vast  wilderness  half 
stocked  with  verdure.  The  shadows  of  the  clouds 
travelled  slowly,  darkening  the  tawny  summits.  All 
was  in  harmony,  the  monotonous  sound  of  the  wind, 
the  calm  march  of  the  clouds,  the  waning  of  the 


Chap.  V. 


LUCHON, 


335 


day,  the  tempered  colors,  the  softened  lines.  Here 
it  is  the  second  age  of  nature.  The  earth  conceals 
the  rocks,  the  mosses  clothe  the  earth,  the  rounded 
undulations  of  the  upheaved  soil  resemble  the  tired 
waves  an  hour  after  the  tempest.  Luchon  is  not 
far  from  the  plains  ;  its  mountains  are  the  last  bil- 
lows of  the  subterranean  storm  which  lifted  the 
Pyrenees ;  distance  has  diminished  their  violence, 
tempered  their  grandeur,  and  softened  their  steeps. 
Toward  evening  we  descended  into  the  hollow 
where  the  goats  were  passing.  A  spring  was  run- 
ning there,  caught  in  the  hollowed  trunks  of  trees 
which  answered  for  watering-troughs  to  the  herds. 
It  is  a  delicious  pleasure  after  a  day^s  tramp  to 
bathe  hands  and  lips  in  the  cold  fountain.  Its 
sound  on  this  solitary  plateau  was  charming.  The 
water  trickled  through  the  wood,  among  the  stones, 
and  everywhere  that  it  glided  over  the  blackened 
earth  the  sun  covered  it  with  splendor.  Lines  of 
reeds  marked  its  track  to  the  brink  of  the  pool. 
Herdsman  and  animals  had  gone  down  ;  it  was  the 
sole  inhabitant  of  this  abandoned  field.  Was  it  not 
singular  to  meet  with  a  marsh  at  the  height  of  five 
thousand  feet  ? 


V. 


Toward  the  south  the  river  becomes  a  torrent. 
Half  a  league  from  Luchon  it  is  swallowed  up  in  a 


33^ 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 


deep  defile  of  red  rocks,  many  of  which  have  fallen ; 
the  bed  is  choked  with  blocks ;  the  two  walls  of 
rock  close  together  in  the  north,  and  the  dammed- 
up  water  roars  to  get  out  of  its  prison;  but  the 
trees  grow  in  the  crevices,  and  along  the  wall  the 
white  flowers  of  the  bramble  hang  in  locks. 

Very  near  here,  on  a  round  eminence  of  bare 
rock,  rises  the  ruin  of  a  Moorish  tower,  named 
Castel-Vieil.  Its  side  is  bordered  with  a  frightful 
mountain,  black  and  brown,  perfectly  bald  and  re- 
sembling a  decayed  amphitheatre ;  the  layers  hang 
one  over  another,  notched,  dislocated,  bleeding ; 
the  sharp  edges  and  fractures  are  yellowed  with 
wretched  moss,  vegetable  ulcers  that  defile  with 
their  leprous  patches  the  nudity  of  the  stone.  The 
pieces  of  this  monstrous  skeleton  hold  together 
only  by  their  mass ;  it  is  crannied  with  deep  fis- 
sures, bristling  with  falling  blocks,  broken  to  the 
very  base  ;  it  is  nothing  but  a  ruin  dreary  and  co- 
lossal, sitting  at  the  entrance  of  a  valley,  like  a  bat* 
tered  giant. 

There  was  an  old  beggar-woman  there,  with 
naked  feet  and  arms,  who  was  worthy  of  the  moun- 
tain. For  a  dress  she  had  a  bundle  of  rags  of  every 
color  sewn  together,  and  remained  the  whole  day 
long  crouched  in  the  dust.  One  might  have  counted 
the  muscles  and  tendons  of  her  limbs ;  the  sun  had 
dried  her  flesh  and  burned  her  skin ;  she  resembled 


Chap.  V. 


LUC  HON. 


337 


the  rock  against  which  she  was  sitting ;  she  was  tall, 
with  large,  regular  features,  a  brow  seamed  with 
wrinkles  like  the  bark  of  an  oak,  beneath  her  griz- 
zled lids  a  savage  black  eye,  a  mat  of  white  hair 
hanging  in  the  dust.  If  a  sculptor  had  wished  to 
make  a  statue  of  Dryness,  the  model  was  there. 

The  valley  narrows  and  ascends ;  the  Gave  rolls 
between  two  slopes  of  great  forests,  and  falls  in  a 
constant  succession  of  cascades.  The  eyes  are 
satiated  with  freshness  and  verdure ;  the  trees 
mount  to  the  very  sky,  thickset,  splendid;  the 
magnificent  light  falls  like  a  rain  on  the  immense 
slope  ;  the  myriads  of  plants  suck  it  in,  and  the 
mighty  sap  that  gorges  them  overflows  in  luxury 
and  vigor.  On  all  hands  the  heat  and  the  water 
invigorate  and  propagate  them ;  they  accumulate ; 
enormous  beeches  hang  above  the  torrent ;  ferns 
people  the  brink ;  moss  hangs  in  green  garlands  on 
the  arcades  of  roots ;  wild  flowers  grow  by  families 
in  the  crevices  of  the  beeches  ;  the  long  branches 
go  with  a  leap  to  the  further  brink ;  the  water 
glides,  boils,  leaps  from  one  bank  to  the  other  with 
a  tireless  violence,  and  pierces  its  way  by  a  succes- 
sion of  tempests. 

Further  on  some  noble  beeches  climb  the  slope, 

forming  an  inclined  plane  of  foliage.     The  sun  gives 

lustre  to  their   rustling   tops.     The  cool  shadow 

spreads  its  dampness  between  their  columns,  over 
15 


33^ 


BAGNMES  and  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 


Chap.  V. 


L  UCHON. 


339 


the  ribbons  of  sparse  grass,  and  on  strawberries 
red  as  coral.  From  time  to  time  the  light  falls 
through  an  opening,  and  gushes  in  cataracts  over 
their  flanks  which  it  illuminates  ;  isles  of  brightness 
then  cleave  the  dim  depths;  the  topmost  leaves 
move  softly  their  diaphanous  shade  ;  the  shadow 
almost  disappears,  so  strong  and  universal  is  the 
splendor.  Meanwhile  a  small  hidden  spring  beads 
its  necklace  of  crystal  among  the  roots,  and  great 
velvet  butterflies  wheel  in  the  air  in  broken  starts, 
like  falling  chestnut-leaves. 

At  the  bottom  of  a  hollow  filled  with  plants,  ap- 
pears the  hospice  of  Bagneres,  a  heavy  house  of 
stone,  which  serves  as  a  refuge.  The  mountains 
open  opposite  it  their  amphitheatre  of  rock,  a  huge 
and  blasted  pit;  to  crown  the  whole  the  clouds 
have  gathered,  and  dull  the  rent  enclosure  which 
fences  off  the  horizon — enclosure  that  winds  with 
dreary  air,  perfectly  barren,  with  the  grinning  army 
of  its  pinnacles,  its  raw  cuts,  its  murderous  steeps ; 
beneath  the  dome  of  clouds,  wheels  a  band  of 
screaming  crows.  This  well  seems  their  eyry  ; 
wings  are  needed  to  escape  the  hostility  of  all 
those  brisriing  points,  and  of  so  many  yawning 
gulfs  which  draw  on  the  passer  in  order  to  dash 
him  to  atoms. 

Soon  the  road  seems  brought  to  an  end;  wall 
after  wall,  the  serried  rocks  obstruct  every  outlet ; 


still  you  advance,  zigzag,  among  rounded  blocks, 
along    a  falling    stairway ;  the  wind  sweeps  down 
these,  howling.    No  sign  of  life,  no  herbage  ;  every- 
where the  horrible  nakedness  and  the  chill  of  win- 
ter.    Squat  rocks  lean  beetling  over  the  precipice ; 
others  project  their  heads  to  meet    one    another; 
between  them  the  eye  plunges  into  dark  gulfs  whose 
bottom  it  cannot  reach.     The  violent  juttings  of  all 
parts  advance  and  rise,  piercing  the  air  ;  down  there, 
at  the  bottom,  they  spring  forward  in  lines,  climb- 
ing over  one  another,  in  heaps,  brisding  against 
the  sky  their  hedge  of  pikes.     Suddenly  in  this  ter- 
rible battalion  a  cleft  is  opened  ;  the  Maladetta  lifts 
with  a  spring  its  great  spectre ;  forests  of  shivered 
pines  wind  about  its  foot ;  a  girdle  of  black  rocks 
embosses  its  arid  breast,  and  the  glaciers  make  it  a 

crown. 

Nothing  is  dead,  and  in  respect  to  this  our  feeble 
organs  deceive  us ;  those  mountain  skeletons  seem 
to  us  inert  because  our  eyes  are  used  to  the  mobile 
vegetation  of  the  plains  ;  but  nature  is  eternally 
alive,  and  its  forces  struggle  together  in  these 
sepulchres  of  granite  and  snow,  as  well  as  in  the 
human  hives  or  the  most  flourishing  forests.  Each 
particle  of  rock  presses  or  supports  its  neighbors  ; 
their  apparent  immobility  is  an  equilibrium  of  forces  ; 
all  struggles  and  works ;  nothing  is  calm  and  nothing 
uniform.     Those  blocks  that  the  eye  takes  to  be 


340 


BAGNMeS  and  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


Chap.  V. 


L  UCHOJSr. 


341 


massive  are  networks  of  atoms  infinitely  removed 
from  each  other,  drawn  by  innumerable  and  con- 
trary attractions,  invisible  labyrinths  where  unceas- 
ing transformations  are  wrought   out,  where    fer-  ^' 
ments  the  mineral  life,  as  active  as  other  lives,  but 
grander.     And  ours,  what  is  it,  confined  within  the 
experience  of  a  few  years  and  the  memory  of  a  few 
centuries  .^     What  are  we,  but  a  transitory  excres- 
cence, formed  of  a  little  thickened  air,  grown  by 
chance  in  a  cleft  of  the  eternal  rock  ?     What  is  our 
thought,  so  high  in    dignity,  so   little    in    power? 
The  mineral  substance  and  its  forces  are  the  real 
possessors    and    the   only  masters   of  the  world. 
Pierce  below  this  crust  which  sustains  us  as  far  as 
that  crucible    of  lava  which    tolerates    us.     Here 
strive  and  are  developed  the  great  forces,  the  heat 
and  the  affinities  which  have  formed  the  soil,  have 
composed  the  rocks  which    support  our  life,  have 
furnished  its  cradle  for  it,  and    are    preparing  its 
tomb.     Everything  here  is  transformed  and  stirs  as 
in  the  heart  of  a  tree ;  and  our  race,  nested  on  a 
point  of  the  bark,  perceives  not  that  silent  vegeta- 
tion which  has  lifted  the  trunk,  spread  the  branches, 
and    whose   invincible    progress   brings   in    turns 
flowers,  fruits   and    death.      Meanwhile    a   vaster 
movement  bears  the  planet  with    its    companions 
around  the  sun,    borne  itself  toward  an  unknown 
goal,  in  the  infinite  space  wherein  eddies  the  infi* 


nite  people  of  the  worlds.  Who  will  say  that  they 
are  not  there  merely  to  decorate  and  fill  it  ?  These 
great  rolling  masses  are  the  first  thought  and  the 
broader  development  of  nature ;  they  live  by  the 
same  right  with  ourselves,  they  are  sons  of  the 
same  mother,  and  we  recognize  in  them  our  kin 

and  elders. 

But  in  this   family   there   are   ranks.      I   know 
I  am  but  an  atom;  to  annihilate  me,  the  least  of; 
these  stones  would  suffice  ;  a  bone  half  as  thick  as 
my  thumb  is  the  wretched  cuirass  that  defends  my 
thought  from  delirium  and  death ;  my  entire  action 
and  that  of  all  the  machines  invented  within  sixty 
centuries  would   not  avail   to   scrape   one   of  the 
leaves   of    the    mineral   crust    that    supports   and 
nurtures  me.     And  yet  in  this  all-powerful  nature 
I  count  for  something.     If  among  her  works  I  am 
the  most  fragile,  I  am   also  the  last;    if  she  con- 
fines  me  within  a  corner  of  her  expanse,  it  is  in  me 
that  she  ends.     It  is  in  me  that  she  attains  the  in- 
divisible point  where  she  is   concentred  and  per- 
fected; and  this   mind  through  which  she  knows 
herself  opens  to  her  a  new  career  in  reproducing 
her   works,  imitating   her  order,  penetrating   her 
work,  feeling  its  magnificence  and  eternity.     In  it 
is  opened  a  second  world  reflecting  the  other,  re- 
flecting itself  also,   and,   beyond   itself   and  that 
other,  grasping  the  eternal  law  which  engenders 


342 


BAGNJ^RES  AND  LUCHON,        Book  IV. 


them  both.  To-morrow  I  shall  die,  and  I  am  not 
capable  of  displacing  any  portion  of  this  rock.  But 
during  one  moment  I  have  thought,  and  within  the 
limits  of  that  thought  nature  and  the  universe  were 
comprehended 


CHAPTER  VI. 


TOULOUSE. 


I. 


When,  after  a  two  months'  sojourn  in  the  Pyre* 
nees,  you  leave  Luchon,  and  see  the  flat  country 
near  Martres,  you  are  delighted  and  breathe  freely : 
you  were  tired,  without  knowing  it,  of  those  eternal 
barriers  that  shut  in  the  horizon ;  you  needed 
space.  You  felt  that  the  air  and  light  were 
usurped  by  those  monstrous  protuberances,  and 
that  you  were  not  in  a  land  of  men,  but  in  a  land  of 
mountains.  Unknown  to  yourself  you  longed  for  a 
real  champaign,  free  and  broad.  That  of  Martres 
is  as  level  as  a  sheet  of  water,  populous,  fertile, 
stocked  with  good  plants,  well  cultivated,  con- 
venient for  life,  a  realm  of  abundance  and  security. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  a  field  of  brown  earth, 
broadly  ploughed  with  deep  furrows,  is  a  noble 
sight,  and  that  the  labor  and  happiness  of  civilized 
man  are  as  pleasant  to  behold  as  the  ruggedness 
of  the  untamed  rocks.  A  highway  white  and  flat 
led  in  a  straight  line  to  the  very  horizon,  and  ended 
in  a  cluster  of  red  houses ;  the  peaked  belfry  lifted 


344 


BAGNERES  AND  LUCHON.         Book  IV. 


Chap.  VI. 


TOULOUSE, 


345 


its  needle  into  the  sky ;  but  for  the  sun,  it  would 
pass  for  a  Flemish  landscape.  In  the  streets  there 
were  Van  Ostade's  interiors.  Old  houses,  roofs  of 
uneven  thatch,  leaning  one  upon  another,  machines 
for  hemp  displayed  in  the  doorways,  little  court- 
yards filled  with  tubs,  wheelbarrows,  straw,  chil- 
dren, animals — a  gay  and  well-to-do  air ;  above  all 
the  great  illuminator  of  the  country,  the  universal 
decorator,  the  everlasting  giver  of  joy,  the  sun 
poured  in  profusion  its  beautiful  warm  light  over 
the  walls  of  ruddy  brick,  and  patched  with  strong 
shadows  the  white  roughcast. 

II. 

Toulouse  appears,  all  red  with  bricks,  amidst  the 
red  dust  of  evening. 

A  melancholy  city,  with  narrow  and  flinty  streets. 
The  town  hall,  called  Capitohy  has  but  one  narrow 
entrance,  commonplace  halls,  a  pronounced  and  ele- 
gant fa9ade  in  the  taste  of  the  decorations  for  pub- 
lic festivals.  In  order  that  no  one  may  doubt  its 
antiquity,  they  have  inscribed  on  it  the  word  Cap- 
itolium.  The  cathedral,  dedicated  to  St.  Stephen, 
is  remarkable  only  for  one  pleasant  memory : 

"  Towards  the  year  1027,"  says  Pierre  de  Marca, 
"it  was  the  custom  at  Toulouse  to  box  a  Jew's 
ears  in  public  on  Easter  day,  in  the  Church  of  St 


^ 
^ 


Stephen.  Hugues,  chaplain  to  Aimery,  Viscount 
de  Rochechouart,  being  at  Toulouse  in  his  master's 
suite,  dealt  the  Jew  a  blow  with  such  force  that 
it  crushed  his  head  and  made  his  brains  and  eyes 
to  fall  out,  as  Adhemar  has  observed  in  his 
chronicle." 

The  choir  where  Adhemar  made  this  observation 
is  wanting  in  neither  beauty  nor  grandeur;  but' 
what  strikes  you  most  on  leaving  the  mountains,  is 
the  museum.  You  find  anew  thought,  passion, 
genius,  art,  all  the  most  beautiful  flowers  of  human 
civilization. 

It  is  a  broad,  well-lighted  hall,  flanked  by  two 
small  galleries  of  greater  height,  which  form  a 
semicircle,  and  filled  with  pictures  of  all  the 
schools,  some  of  which  are  excellent.  A  Murillo, 
representing  .5*/.  Diego  and  his  Mojzks ;  you  recog- 
nize in  it  the  monastic  harshness,  the  master's 
sentiment  of  reality,  his  originality  of  expression  and 
earnest  vigor.  A  Martyrdom  of  St,  Andrew,  by 
Caravaggio,  black  and  horrible.  Several  pictures 
by  the  Caracci,  Guercino  and  Guido.  A  Cere7nony 
of  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost  in  1635,  by  Philip 
de  Champagne.  These  most  real,  delicate  and 
noble  faces  are  portraits  of  the  time ;  you  see  the 
contemporaries  of  Louis  XIII.  in  life.  Here  are 
the  correct  drawing,  temperate  color,  conscientious 

but  not    literal  exactness   of  a  Fleminof    become 
IS' 


346 


£AGJV£RES  and  LUCHON.        Book  IV. 


a  Frenchman.  A  charming  Marquise  de  Largillierey 
with  a  wasp  waist  in  blue  velvet,  elegant  and 
haughty.  A  Christ  Crucified,  by  Rubens,  the  eyes 
glassy,  flesh  livid — a  powerful  sketch,  wherein  the 
cold  whiteness  of  the  faded  tints  exhales  the  fright- 
ful poetry  of  death. 

I  name  only  the  most  striking ;  but  the  liveliest 
sensation  comes  from  the  modern  pictures.     They 
transport  the  mind  all  at  once  to  Paris,  into  the 
midst   of  our  discussions,  into   the   inventive   and 
troubled  world  of  the   modern  arts,  the  immense 
laboratory   where  so   many   fruitful  and   opposing 
forces  weave  the  work  of  a  renewing  century  :     A 
celebrated  picture  by  Glaize,  the  Death  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist;  the  half-naked  butcher  who  holds  the 
head  is  a  superb  brute,  a  careless   instrument   of 
death  which  has  just  done  its  work  well.     An  ele- 
gant and  affected  painting  by  Schoppin,  Jacob  be- 
fore Laban  and  his  two  Daughters.    The  dauo-hters 
of  Laban    are   pretty   drawing-room    misses    who 
have  just  disguised  themselves  as  Arabs.      Muley 
Abd-el'Rhaman,   by   Eugene  Delacroix.       He   is 
motionless    on  a   bluish   and    melancholy    horse. 
Files    of  soldiers  are  presenting  arms,    packed  in 
masses  in  a  stifling  atmosphere  ;  dull  heads,  stupid 
and  real,  hooded  with  the  white  bournous ;  ruined 
towers  are  piled  behind  them  under  a  leaden  sun. 
The  crude   colors,   the  heavy  garments,  bronzed 


Chap.  VI. 


TOULOUSE, 


347 


limbs,  massive  parasols,  that  lifeless  and  animal  ex- 
pression are  the  revelation  of  a  land  where  thought 
sleeps  overwhelmed  and  buried  under  the  weight 
of  barbarism,  of  the  religion  and  the  climate.  In  a 
corner  of  the  small  gallery  is  the  first  brilliant 
stroke  of  Couture,  The  Thirst  of  Gold.  All  misery 
and  every  temptation  come  to  solicit  the  miser :  a 
mother  and  her  starving  child,  an  artist  reduced  to 
beggary,  two  half-nude  courtesans.  He  gazes  at 
them  with  sorrowful  ardor,  but  the  hooked  fingers 
cannot  let  go  the  gold.  His  lips  shrivel,  his 
cheeks  glow,  his  burning  eyes  are  fastened  to  their 
wanton  bosoms.  It  is  the  torture  of  the  heart  torn 
by  the  rebellion  of  the  senses,  the  concentrated 
despair  of  repressed  desire,  the  bitter  tyranny  of  the 
ruling  passion.  Never  did  face  better  express  the 
soul.  The  drawing  is  bold,  the  color  superb,  more 
daring  than  in  the  Romans  of  the  Decadence^  so 
lively  that  you  forget  to  notice  a  few  crude  tones, 
hazarded  In  the  transport  of  composition. 

It  is  perhaps  too  much  praise.  All  these  mod- 
erns are  poets  who  have  determined  to  be  painters. 
One  has  sought  out  dramas  in  history,  another 
scenes  of  manners  ;  one  translates  religions,  another 
a  philosophy.  Such  an  one  Imitates  Raphael,  such 
another  the  early  Italian  masters  ;  the  landscapist 
employs  trees  and  clouds  to  compose  odes  or 
elegies.     No  one  is  simply  a  painter ;  they  are  all 


348 


BAGNMrES  and  LUCHON.        Book  IV.' 


archaeologists,  psychologists,  giving  setting  to 
some  memory  or  theory.  They  please  our  learn- 
ing, our  philosophy.  Like  ourselves,  they  are  full 
and  overflowing  with  general  ideas,  Parisians  un- 
easy and  curious.  They  live  too  much  by  the 
brain,  and  too  little  by  the  senses ;  they  have  too 
much  wit  and  too  little  artlessness.  They  do  not 
love  a  form  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  what  it  ex- 
presses ;  and  if  they  chance  to  love  it,  it  is  volun- 
tarily, with  an  acquired  taste,  from  an  antiquary's 
superstition.  They  are  children  of  a  wise  genera- 
tion, harassed  and  thoughtful,  in  which  men  who 
have  won  equality  and  the  freedom  of  thought,  and 
of  shaping  each  for  himself  his  religion,  rank, 
and  fortune,  wish  to  find  in  art  the  expression  of 
their  anxieties  and  meditations.  They  are  a  thou- 
sand leagues  away  from  the  first  masters,  workmen 
or  cavaliers,  who  lived  out-of-doors,  scarcely  read 
at  all,  and  thought  only  of  giving  a  feast  for  their 
eyes.  It  is  for  that  that  I  love  them ;  I  feel  like 
them  because  I  am  of  their  century.  Sympathy  is 
the  best  source  of  admiration  and   pleasure. 


III. 


Below  the  museum  is  a  square  tower  enclosed  by 
a  gallery  of  slender  columns,  which  towards  the  top 
bend  and  are  cut  into  trefoils,  forming  a  border  of 


Chap.  VI. 


TOULOUSE, 


349 


arcades.  They  have  gathered  under  this  gallery 
all  the  antiquities  of  the  country :  fragments  of 
Roman  statues,  severe  busts  of  emperors,  ascetic 
virgins  of  the  middle  ages,  bas-reliefs  from  churches 
and  temples,  knights  of  stone  lying  all  armed 
upon  their  tombs.  The  court  was  deserted  and 
silent;  tall  slender  trees,  tufted  shrubbery,  were 
bright  with  the  loveliest  green.  A  dazzling  sun- 
light fell  on  the  red  tiles  of  the  gallery ;  an  old 
fountain,  loaded  with  little  columns  and  heads  of 
animals,  murmured  near  to  a  bench  of  rose-veined 
marble.  A  statue  of  a  young  man  was  seen 
amidst  the  branches ;  stems  of  green  hops  climbed 
up  around  broken  columns.  This  mixture  of  rustic 
objects  and  objects  of  art,  these  wrecks  of  two  dead 
civilizations  and  the  youth  of  flowery  plants,  the 
joyous  rays  on  the  old  tiles,  united  in  their  con- 
trasts all  that  I  had  seen  for  two  months. 


THE   END. 


IW, 


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